The weary sun
stoops to push through the window,
flooding my desk with bright light.
Outside, her rays reveal
the tall, once-elegant grass
fading
from golden lustre
to brittle ecru.

The previously bountiful buffalo thorn,
full of ripe red berries,
starlings and barbets,
now bears but two or three
brown shrivelled seeds.

Shadows,
long and emboldened now,
creep up on the day
much faster than they did.
A chill touches the evening air.

And so Autumn
weaves her way
across the veld,
through the acacias,
laughing with the wood hoopoes,
playing hopscotch with bushbabies.

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PAD 14

Prompt: Write a poem “from where you sit.”