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rejectomorphA breeze has come up, and the pines are singing nearly solo because the oaks and other trees have lost their leaves. The bushes do what they can, but that is little. There is no moon, so the sound dominates the chilly night, and the stars flicker. The movement freshens the air, banishing all traces of chimney smoke, pine resin, leaf mold. It is air alone that rushes past, on its way to the high mountains. The branches of the pines, dark silhouettes, wave it goodbye.
