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September 9, 1998
A Waiting Time

A first few pitiful leaves, dropped grudgingly, yellowed, still supple though, and mottled green. Buffaloberries tantalize within safe thorns. Air itself, once soft and sweet, now used up, old. First Frost, crisp leaves, new air; in death, renewal, in end, begin. In sweet-tart berries, reward.
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