Up and down, through alleyways of rain, wings,
Cocked head, spread wide, and the vane
Ripping in the wind while tatters turn:
The storm burns through the ferns. I feel quiet
Under the windows, listening to the drops
Patter their innuendo, resolve of a voice
Intoning certain grounds. Hear plants bend
A branch: they are ready to break.
They have been waiting their whole
Growth for this slow plenitude of motion,
And a cock is beady tears
Swinging to the north,
Bearing east.
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