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Swainson's Return 

In mid-May:
A passing rain opens the day.
Finally, on cue, the evening sun,
Casts colored light across the tops of trees,
And peers through the kitchen window,
Suddenly weaving the day
Into a great, hushing pause.

Even the hissing whispers of grandma’s gossip,
Under cast iron clangs, ceramic dings,
And the thwaps of the back screen door,
Chasing kids coming in with handfuls of azaleas
And a last trillium, bedazzled in rain,
Stops.

Outside, the cigar men might gather up
Into their circle of backyard chairs,
But even their stories and ribbing,
Will slow to nods and long glances
Before fading into evening’s silent choir.

Then, as the light draws close,
A thrush announces summer’s arrival,
A circling imminence, soaring,
Freeing them all from this day.

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Sam A. Flanagan

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