The cold, pale rays of sunlight,
Are shining in the dawn.
And the haze is slowly lifting,
From the trees upon the lawn.

The leaves, in all their glory,
Put on their cloaks of gold,
And scatter o’er the wood lands,
As the autumn wind blows cold.

The dark brown nuts are dropping
Like a hail upon the ground,
And the lively little squirrel
Is scurrying around.

The bear, grown fat by summer
Ambled o’er the hill,
Through sparkling woodland waters
Into the forest still.
Roger Fogelman—7th grade

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