The leaves of this tree, many shades of red and yellow in colour, fell sluggishly like puffy snowflakes towards the springy grass, cushioning the falls of the many bouncing toddlers whom were taking their first steps. This intertwined with the fecundity of a place both they and I thought of as being a place in which, if the Garden of Eden were transposed atop this frothing canvas of colour before my eyes, its beauty would wither and wane against what is without doubt, the shadow of a Monet, a Picasso, and a Van Gogh. Maybe this is better?
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