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Some time after eleven the fireworks
of the last fête of this autumn begin
popping down in the valley a few sparks
here and there climbing slowly through thin rain
into the darkness until they are gone
above the carnival din and the caught
faces lit by wheeling rides in that one
moment looking up still and shining what
are they celebrating now that the fine
days are finished and the old leaves falling
and fields empty this year when a season
has ended and we stand again watching
those brief flares in the silence of heaven
without knowing what they are signalling
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