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At least the owls in their holes
Are dry.
But I
Am soaked,
pushing up the hill
With a south wind behind me,
In good company
Frothy Goldenrod
Glowing
The purple heather
Spangled with raindrops
Swallows
High
Hawk in the drizzle
Mist in my eyes
And the sound of the wind
Soft in my ears.

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