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to wake us, buzzing from our silent dreams--
the cooing, careening owl song,
the old clean sage-smoke only buffalo can know.
we think, some of us people,
that we will wake and walk into something important
outside ourselves, aglow--
a new day, a bright sun, eternal blueness.
but i'll say it plainly:
your waking won't be, at last, an external sunrise.
it will be your own,
and you will labor for it.
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