Even as the brown leaves fall a still green machine prowls.
Edges of its coat showing the browns and yellows of the quiet time to come.
It’s prey already slowed and themselves hunting for a winter place.
The machine is patient and knows all come to those who watch and wait.
It’s deadly array of field artillery still sharp, its eye never closing untill the snow covers its hallow corps.
But sleek line and form for function keep it stealthy to the end and even in still summer clothing it steals the juices of life, not with contempt for the other but preservation of the self.
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