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The November Angels
Jane Hirshfield
Late dazzle of yellow flooding the simplified woods, spare chipping away of the afternoon-stone by a small brown finch-- there is little for them to do, and so their gossip is idle, modest: low-growing, tiny-white-flowered. Below, the Earth-pelt dapples and flows with slow bees that spin the thick, deep jute of the gold time’s going, the pollen’s traceless retreat; kingfishers enter their kingdom, their blue crowns on fire, and feast on the still-wealthy world.
A single, cold blossom tumbles, fledged from the sky’s white branch. And the angels look on, observing what falls: all of it falls.
Their hands hold no blessings, no word for those who walk in the tall black pines, who do not feel themselves falling-- the one s who believe the loved companion will hold them forever, the one s who cross through alone and ask for no sign.
The afternoon lengthens, steepens, flares out-- no matter for them. It is assenting that makes them angels, neither increased nor decreased by the clamorous heart: their onl y work to shine back, however the passing brightness hurts their eyes.

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