Across the street from my house stands a relic of a black Ford pickup truck. Its license plate reads “Ol Dog.”

Today, after a rain that lasted all through the night and into the morning, the truck shone,  raven and chrome. A banquet of leaves, dislodged by the storm, lay strewn over the hood and roof and on the ground, inches thick. Red and orange blazed against their dark stage, like a death aria.

Goodbye to the days of road racing and photosynthesis. Only sit and soak in the rain, collect rust, tremble at the wind, fall into the dark night.

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