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Talking it over -- Hancock Record 9-3-09

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Go slowly, August,

we cannot part with Summer yet.

Each evening brings its own regret -

A crunch of brown in fading grass,


A cooling sign of winds that pass,

A hint of smoky Summer haze,

The subtle shortening of the days.

Wait, August, cling fast to summer's song;

Once here, Fall and Winter lasts too long.

Tell Autumn "stay," our Summer is not yet done;

Let the pond waves run in the morning sun.

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