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139 AUTUMN Higher than sandhill cranes turned south, we fly one last time this season north. Wayward breezes lift us. Outlined yellow each creek, each draw. Dryer hillsides brush ruddy tundra. Beyond the Yukon, past the tors no storm has scoured away, the sky turns gray angora. We bank and soar back toward home skim down on the float pond filled with marvels we’ve been given to see, suffused with grace. Hard frost tonight— the world changes its mind. ...

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