Labor Day Cry

Let seagulls cry for tourists gone home,

the winds carry sands to lands unknown.

Addresses so specific fade into mystery,

the summer is now only sweet history.

Clothes grow longer, from cotton to wool,

pull the jacket tighter, protection from the cool.

The parking lots are empty,

the beach becomes barren,

winter looms ahead, cold and uncaring.

So let seagulls cry for tourists gone home, let autumn make itself known.

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