Winter has come, but the land does not know it. Stuck in a twilight between autumn and winter, the trees have dropped brown leaves to the patchy grass, but the bushes cling tightly to their evergreen leaves, and the vines quaver between loosing their yellowing leaves or keeping them until new spring buds push out their elders.
The sun shines a warm, benevolent smile on the struggling green. The skies have cleared their frowny clouds, resting from their tempestuous tears. Frost appears during the unlit hours, but turns to dew as the sun breaks over the rooftops.
The back porch is a silent observer to all these happenings. It is neither affected nor worried by the strangeness of the season. Rain bathes the concrete, and dries away in the sun. Snow dusts it, frost leaves an icy layer, all to disappear. Leaves come and go. Insects crawl across the rough, stony surface. Children race underneath, birds wing overhead. They come. They go. The back porch sees all the affairs of the flighty, quick-moving creatures around it. Time is all that wears away at this hardened mash of rock. Time, and the memories of having once been part of a mountain.
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