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  • Above,
    bright as a welder’s arc, the November sun
    scribes the margins between clouds
    slants and scrolls
    unbearably bright
    a message writ for other eyes
    only the fragments fall my way

    Below,
    harrying winds
    strip a golden poplar
    sending streams of leaves
    swirling about me
    all these moments, loose and tumbling
    I think of time unchained
    their rustling passage
    a familiar air in the season’s grand unraveling
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