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Wave out long ripples To the dust of dead leaves On the shore. And the moon walks, Hunting for hidden dolphins Behind the darkening combers Of the ground. And downshore from the cloud, I stand, waiting For dark. BEGINNING The moon drops one or two feathers into the field. The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now. There they are, the moon's young, trying Their wings. Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow Of her race, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone Wholly, into the air. I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe Or move. I listen. The wheat leans back toward its own darkness, And I lean toward mine. FROM A BUS WINDOW IN CENTRAL OHIO, JUST BEFORE A THUNDER SHOWER Cribs loaded with roughage huddle together Before the north clouds. The wind tiptoes between poplars. The silver maple leaves squint Toward the ground. THE BRANCH WILL NOT BREAK I2y ...

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