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Autumn at Saylesville Pond
by Mary Jo Balistreri

Terns wheel and arc over the pond
like white doves of peace. Down
below, carp suck among marsh grass,
bottom-feed in the liquid glass.
A hawk solemnly ponders lunch, takes
no notice of the winged ballet above.
A distant oar dips and lifts before
the rower comes into view. When wind
begins to ripple the leaves, the air is spiced
with maple and oak, the acrid smell of mud
and moldering vegetation. The sun ends
the poem with a reflective last line, lowers
itself into the water and changes it to wine.

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