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G E O R G E G A R R E T T York Harbor Morning Where clear air blew off the land wind turns around and the sky changes. Where there was burning blue is pale gray now heavy with the salt and scent of open sea and the lazy groaning of the foghorn saying change change change like a sleeper dreaming and breathing. Tide turning, too, with the weather, and the lobsterboats swing around to pull against moorings like large dogs on chains. Gulls cry like hurt children and vanish, and I begin to think it was a magician, bitter and clever, who played this trick. That old magician is laughing in the fog. The cries of wounded children fade away while the bellbuoy rings farewell farewell daring the dead to rise from their dreaming and hold their lives like water in their hands. 72 ❚ The 1970s ...

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