Givens of a walk round: five goslings and two geese
beneath architecture. A sapling spines out of rainwater
with a marsh bird in its beak. Beyond, commissary
concrete and the police band's buzz, enthusing
flyaway. We are mortal and these thoughts
propagate what they propitiate. Specialness,
springtime: we accept terrain. Rain dusts
newsprint to assign our skins, adopt our homes.
But Mrs. Ramsay said it would be fine tomorrow.
Is our tomorrow hers? Her nearly audible click?
What is to be done in the face of our mild occupation?
Paddling between their parents, the newly fleeced
are burred with dim yellow optimism. What's given
seems some water and the bell these buildings peal.
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