April 19

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Silent hill, sparse dove
and an elbow of swifts
this morning colder
than all the rest

How do you feel?
we ask
with trepidation
and balsamroot stalks

How deep this rabbit
warren must go into
the hills,

hidden
they must think
by the fine-grained
dawn and tumbleweed

no longer prey to
the pill-round moon
and arrow-leaves

But I hear it now faint
as bird wings or wind
caught in sagebrush,

sometimes the night
stalks the day.

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