Brief pre-winter days:
a noon sun perched just
centimetres above
the jackpine’s crest.
Giving little warmth,
the sun seems
merely a spark,
an ember in the primitive pipe
of the shaman,
as he dreams
reality
and fantasy,
and all combined.
The dog, the jays, the old man
all knew
winter was coming,
but, here... now...
the feeble sun
traces shadows,
and summer glories
echo echo echo
in the autumn air.
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