Up from the meadow a wind is blowing,
The wind we longed for the summer through.
The sky, which was gold and hot and glowing,
Is high above us and strangely blue.
There, where the apple tree was budding
Ready to bloom, we hear a sound
And turn to find it's an apple thudding
Heavy and hard to the sunbaked ground.
A line of geese sweeps up from the river,
Dry leaves crunch on the browning lawn.
We look at each other, surprised, and shiver
And suddenly--swiftly--summer is gone.
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