Dim, gray, cool morning;
Birds call and mist sweeps my face;
Woodpecker thrumming.
Woodpeckers' hammers
Echoes from both sides of the road.
Natives are restless.
Now they are swelling:
Yellow buds on brown branches.
Still the swing is empty.
Now the mist turns rain;
Soft patters fall on my hat--
The opening sky.
Drops fall on the pond
Pocking its glassy surface;
Calf runs with pleasure.
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