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 IN Early Spring

I rake out last fall’s

leaves now brown and gray

some decayed, uncover

insects wintering over,

tan feathers from a bird

caught by a cat,

the shriveled body

of a small mouse, a tangle

of twigs scattered

over gnarled maple roots.

The midday sun warms

the air to the damp,

peaty smell of compost. Nearby

a blue baby swing, hangs

on a yellow rope, waits quietly

for a child.