Just Before April Came – Carl
Sandburg
THE SNOW piles in dark places are
gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks
shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places
shines.
A white pigeon reels and
somersaults.
Frogs plutter and squdge—and
frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they
march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a
pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these
people?
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