In the hour of not quite rain
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when the fog was fingertip high
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The moon hung suspended
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in a singular sky
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Deeply and beyond seeing
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not wishing to intrude
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Bathed in its own reflection
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the water mirrored the moon
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The tumbling birds have now sobered
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from the leaves of their nursery
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Like shadowy, quiet children
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watching sleepily
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In The Hours Of Not Quite Rain
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| Buffalo Springfield |
