Morning spins
lightened gray linen
of April fifteenth,
and the first
small-boned birds
of New Hampshire's spring,
robins and wrens;
the long winter
ends as slowly
as the mackerel sky
moves over.
The news
of this dawn
is not its drama,
not the thunder
which may or may not come
this afternoon;
it is draft-horse slowness,
silent dissolution of ice,
simple one word
six note songs
of killdeer come home
for summer:
"always, always, always"
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