A fresh bank of cumulus clouds floats across the sky. The bare maple branches atop the trees in the front yard gently sway in the light breeze. The near-midafternoon sun casts their pale shadows across neighbors’ houses like so much shadow theater.
Except for the cold, it’s a day to visit their grave.
Spring with its showers passed. Summer with its searing heat passed. Autumn with its falling foliage passed. Now, this winter, with its defecit of snow, passes. Their memorial stone stoically endures the shifting climate and constant absence.
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