(from All Roads Lead to Scranton )
We leave with the changing leaves
This mountain side, this rushing brook
This fall off to the depths of souls
We could only imagine until we
Actually walked this walk
And talked this talk,
The sharp edge of some great
Adventure upon which sit
Waiting, wading in the stream
Of life while below in the valley
The sluggish autumn waters
Darkly reflect us and the leaves
And the trees that must someday]
Turn green again
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