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I watched the sunrise again, for the first time in ages, sitting on the porch of my estate, the wind howling only slightly, the coolness of the midwinter breeze brushing against my face. Drinking coffee, smoking another cigarette, keeping my thoughts within my head, ever so slightly a vague idea would come around, and then a thought, some would transform into a masterpiece, and others would die along side the flowers of early Autumn. Like the leaves, fluttering to the ground once they live no more, creation, destruction, and then, so sweetly again, rebirth in the spring. Spring, a delicate season,as easily manipulated as a child, by the winds and waters. The sky commands it forcefully, yet so ductile, so becoming. The dalliance of spring, which will transform into another summer, then again the death of Autumn again, a horridly beautiful cycle, nature's promise, birth and death, the eternal dance of all living beings. The ephemeral life of each season, coming and going in its time, beautifully delicate.
I witnessed the sun arise and take it's place upon the pedestal of day, as the moon does in the eve, an occurrence so naturally brilliant that no hand of man can bestow upon it his own wishes, nor control it. This is the way of nature, I decided, the way of the dance we live, played by some power uncontrollable to any man, pawns in the game of chess, rivals to our own self, we are nature's lagniappe, a gift, a privilege. This day will, too, end like any other before it, and the countless ones that will follow, leaving me again, perched upon a stool, unable to change a thing, but caught in this dance with it, observing it and enjoying every second. This is life, this is living, the privilege of watching the sunrise over coffee and a cigarette, recognizing the dance we play a role in, left unknown to the second act, but anxiously awaiting its playing out.
The winter had taken its toll on the land, it lie in desolate death from tree to sky, even the sun fears the winter months, as it cannot shine for quite so long. Winter rises above us, striking dead the autumn, with no concern for it, nor sympathy for is death, just as spring, the sister of autumn, shall kill the winter's cold, and summer, the delicate sister of winter will in turn repay spring its dues, thus leaving autumn to rise again from its temporary grave to kill the brother of winter. Nature, the father of all four seasons, had set into play a certain way, all four siblings will get their rule over the earth, but only one can rule at a time, and the law of nature set, one must kill the previous holder, but death would have no hold over them, as they are immortal, and death only last three fourths a year. Autumn must kill the summer, but with autumn comes a becoming scene, perhaps the most beautiful scene set by any of the other siblings, bright and opulent colors surrounding the people the four siblings preside over. But with her comes death. Does it make autumn cruel to wilt and kill the flowers, or is this just the natural way?
Time again, has come, for a year to draw closed, and with it comes Autumn's death, and Winter's rise, once again, and for many more times to come.