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Cloudless horizons
Crystal clear and cold
All the mills face north
They're turning gently
And humming softly
to themselves
Noisy geese
are gathered
On the hillside
Waiting for a sign,
Crows have turned
their silver backs
Towards the golden sun
And are busy picking over
Last night's molehills
There's a frost in the meadow
And there's clover by my tree
And a hole in the sky
Where the lark should be.

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