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Sunday's streets are blown and bare,
empty of any commotion
As if time had been stalled, or some sabbath curfew
had been suddenly called
Stealing through them like some giddy sleuth,
and my prize is the hush,
the chorus of wind through the hedges and rush
They are dancing at dusk, and romantically flush
Like lovers they entwine beneath the ocean where the moon is
Dark december skies and held aloft by lanky spruces
- Gene Starwind
