Cornel Adam Lengyel
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Homeward bound, with a burlap sack of pine cones,
I climb the round-breasted hills of Tamalpais.
Ahead, on a rim of a cloud-hammered sky
the pale moon, no more than a pear-tree petal,
floats into the fading day. Here and there
quail whir from my path. I follow darkening trails
aware, now and then, of a stray bewildered lark
that questions where the light has fled.
Around me, veil upon veil, mist and fog
drift endlessly inland from the sea,
like smoke from half-forgotten furnaces,
like haze from distant fields of endless war,
like blue dust from a ...