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One could jump deep into this sky -- translucent as a Chinese glaze between tight budded furthest reaches of trees, and there would be only thrust and arc, space and a hurtling with no splash and no end -- maybe a quiet descent the way a thought fades. The fifers on the square piped "Quick March" in the wind. March is quick. You and I in March bought Marzipan on a morning skyed like this. The baker called it March breadm and told us about the Russian spring. The squirrels were quick on the trunks. The stubborn buds Wave against a sky that one could swim in; in their deep grounded fists March i s quick.

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