His voice wouldn’t let be. The door was closed. Not locked. Steam rose and there was more. We thought of leaves we knew and how to step on them. Some would crack and you could nearly hear them die. If you picked the leaf up, and studied the veins, we saw where they were cut. We felt badly for the leaf and asked, ‘Can we do differently?’ and the leaf did not reply.
mtaggartwriter 
We waited in silence
Yet there wasn’t a word spoken
Death does not discriminate
It was either the leaf or…….
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