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I hear the puddling in the gutters,
that mysterious rush of rain
in grass. Beneath the east window,
neighbors’ lamps gleam on the
fragile pools in thirsty leaves.
I imagine purple pansies
lifting their gray and yellow eyes
to the sky.
After a month of
drought I should rejoice, but don’t.
Somewhere people murmur There
is a god, but to me it’s a visit
by a gray-coated spirit that will
drift away to the East,
looking for the wind.
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