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Still scribbles against the sky,
Branches reach up and out,
eating air, drinking sun,
stretching till a tiny plumb
of flesh occurs at the
finger tip, at last.

The ground below,
so taken for granted,
already fuzzy in
new green- blades and wisps
bright and low,
undulates broad and shallow,
subtle under too much pavement-
that which supposedly
makes us civilized.

Yet here we spit
and litter and
scream and honk
at each other while
Nature sighs
along her slow
and careful way;
rolling her eyes perhaps,
She continues on and
long after we are done-
May she reign again.

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