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Buffalo Springfield
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The Hour Of Not Quite Rain
In the hour of not quite rain
When the fog was fingertip high
The moon hung suspended
In a singular sky
Deeply and beyond seeing
Not wishing to intrude
Bathed in its own reflection
The water mirrored the moon
The tumbling birds have now sobered
From the leaves of their nursery
Like shadowy, quiet children
Watching sleepily
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