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Indian Summer The plains drift on through the deepdaylight. I watch the snow bees sent mad by the sun. The limbs of the hickory trees swing loose in the noontide, Feathery, stretching their necks. The wind blows through its own hair forever. If something is due me still —Firedogs, ashes, the soap of another life— I give it back. And this hive Of sheveled combs, my wax in its littlebox. 117 ...

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