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Fall

The season's shifted over. It's still hot out there, but it's not as dreadfully scorching as the height of summer. Night smells of fall, now. The air's cooled, and the scents of the season are present. The smoke, the crisp death of plants, and that temperature change that speaks of preservation and slow decay under the other elements and recycling creatures rather than a swift and gross decomposition and dessication under the punishing sun.

It's Fall. I can smell it.

(And I miss him. The light in his eyes is the light at my heart. It gets worse when I smell the night air. I imprinted on him to that scent. All of us did.)
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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