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The maple leaves are always green up here,
and the waters of the Sound
always blue. I have been thinking
of you all day, at least
since breezes pushed the rain away
and sunshine burned the fog.
Even now, late afternoon, the coves
of Indian and Marrowstone islands
seem to steam. A small figure
slowly rows the water, stopping
here and there at crab pots in the bay.
In hills unfolding away
from the sleepy little town,
fine old cedars nod in the easy wind
like the kite above the grammar school,
like grand old men.
Copyright 2018 Estate of Sam Hamill. From After Morning Rain published by Tiger Bark Press. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the publisher.