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For a Northern Reader

Until the light has
failed as if bereft
the white mist
barely infiltrating
the trees

and as if they were painted
on a green landscape the animals
descending to their black shelters
come to a standstill
at the edge of our gaze

resolute
half his journey done
our ailing neighbor too
pauses
reckoning the distance left

-W. G. Sebald, 2001