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It’s one of those Saturdays
with not a lot to do,
between picking up dog turds from my footpath
& cleaning the same stuff in my house again.

It is miserable, the sky’s dark brow
frowning—
threatening us with a vast accumulation.

Bob from no.52 is polishing his wheel trims again.

I look to the trees, their small buds offer little
to their nakedness. The wind runs through them.
A small brown bird clings to the top.

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