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  • Yesterday we turned back the clocks,
    such a small measure of time
    to gain or lose,
    so little in the end,
    and yet, today, driving home,
    already shadows quilt the hills,
    cloaking pine and field,
    but along the river, yellow poplars
    still bright as streetlamps
    fade only slowly.
    I follow the line they trace
    an earthbound echo
    of the sun’s last glimmer.
    The final finger of a trailing hand
    slipping beyond the mountains
    and for a season, gone.
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