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By James P. Friel
The autumn leaves mark the tide,
ripple by ripple,
as it rolls across the harbor,
between the boats
nesting quietly on a Sunday morning.
This is their church,
awaiting the rain,
The leaves warn us
the tide is soon to turn.
Distracted, we go about our business
having communicated with the placid bay
that all will be well one day
after the ripples cede the harbor
to the tranquility of the sea.
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