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 The moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
There they are, the moon's young, trying Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness, And I lean toward mine.

by James Wright
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