It was November. It was cold; below the seasonal average, the weather forecast said. The wind swept the dead leaves along in gusts. The sky was a cold, clear blue. Really not the weather to be put
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The birds sing
As I sit in stagnant heat
Hands on still oars,
And the lake mirrors the sky
So perfectly
That I stand up and dive down
Toward the heavens,
And among the clouds,
Before the water breaks my wings,
I understand their song.
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