Deciduous

I looked over and saw his profile superimposed on an evergreen forest, somewhere around the state line of Indiana. I remember meditating on the contrast: The greenness of innocence had been stolen from him; his deciduous flesh would not survive the season, yet the tilt of his head and the curled up corner of his mouth spoke of blissful resignation to that which could not be cheated: death, churning on the western horizon.

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