By Mackenzie Premel

She stands on a block all her own, the sun blinking down on her through the gray clouds. A slim
figure once clothed in full color now slowly being stripped away with each kiss of wind. Her
scraps are her children, dancing in the air.  A swirl, a dive, a float, they fall to the ground,
covering the world in hues of reds, yellows, and oranges. But their dejected half-mother remains
behind. Her frigid limbs more and more exposed with each passing gush of wind. Her scrap
children leave her in hoards or one by one, stripping her to the bare bones. She’s half-clothed in
a soft fire but holds no warmth for the passerby. Her sisters down the block are still covered in
their rapidly changing children but her brothers across town are already bare to the bark. Their
scraps have already had their dance and now, she grows envious of her tall half-fathers that
reside just behind her. Their children never leave them; they stay fully clothed, no matter how
the snow or rain pounds against them. They stay green while she slowly burns in a dying fire
that scorches her to the bones until nothing is left; just a few scant reminders of her former
glory, littering the ground and clogging the street.

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