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Times Rushes By
time rushes by
like birds in winter
aging each feather a year
with sharp biting winds
hawks fly high above
cold emotionless cliffs
circle . . . waiting
to land quietly
upon the dying prey
vultures are the same
circle . . . waiting
wide eager eyes lure
with feast anticipation
while melting to the ground
the dying prey sighs knowing
his bones pecked ivory clean
will lie nobly before
the morning sun
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