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Doug Van Hooser
Crab Apple Pips
Every day in my November
The sun arrives late, leaves early
The wind whistles a dissonant tune
I rake the souls of leaves
For some reason this year
There are no acorns
Chipmunks must wonder why me
As they bore their burrow deeper
The shades of brown are questions
I don’t want to hear
The stoic oaks give no hints
The mums oblivious
Frost has sunk its teeth
Snowflakes pirouette
I wander through this denouement
A sparrow still finding seeds
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