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Railing Westby Alan Harrisdirty window I see the clear yellow sun sliding its way down into stardom. A sudden stand of trees whisking by allows water to gleam up from between their trunks, still as the reflected sky. Suburban homes too new for trees swiftly turn like fashion models on a stage. Dusk is now underway with this ambivalent sky, neither gray nor blue, tempting my train westward into nightfall. Like a sinking orange lollipop, the sun is being licked away fast from underneath by tomorrow. I have lived long enough to have respect for tomorrow. I have one sun only, and only one tomorrow. I wait and wait for tomorrow until it's all I am.
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