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Dry, multi-colored leaves swirled on the wind, like an invisible hand had tossed the entire pile into the air.  Overhead, also in formation, was a cloud of black birds, swooping and turning, its edges swelling and compressing.  The whole world seemed to be in movement, unlike Jon, who stood as still as possible, arms extended, pretending he was the one orchestrating the leaves and the birds and the wind itself.