A poem by faculty member Monica Youn appears at The New Yorker:

We were sitting, leaning back against the house,
on the stone patio, or terrace, looking out over a steep drop

at the mountains arrayed in a semicircle around us,
all expectant angles, like the music stands

of an absent orchestra—summer colors, orangey golds
and dim blues and there must have been greens as well—

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