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First let me hear, my shepherd,
rainwater flowing underground,
in storm sewers.

I’ll give thee a mechanic’s tune,
drumming on a hood
in a tractor repair shop,
garage doors open to May.

Across the green ballfields,
let’s picnic under the elms
above a pale river.

Three crows rest in the yellow
blossom dogwood.

I’ve abandoned April’s songs
like the prizes I won
in the mountains with my songs
of last summer.

Tryllis is alive and sings
about robins. Apollo
will choose with perfect ears.