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September Bus Stop MAG
Six forty-two a.m.,
The sun peeks over the horizon.
Pastel pinks and yellows flood reds and golds of autumn leaves.
Down in the valley, woods fade into fog:
Has a lone cloud fallen out of the sky?
Blue sky is interrupted only by a pale circle of moon,
Its solemn face wondering at the world.
An old Earth is enlightened by a new day.
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