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In spring the dozer wakes To cool light etching trunks, Spill of creek, boulders, green moss. The dozer throttles in the park. With clashing gears it shoves Windfallen branches Into a growing mound. A scrapfire tipped with black Ripples the hill behind. Laurel leaves high and feather-edged Shade pools, dapple shallows, Render duff and water ambiguous. The dozer's cough Echoes off trees and hill. All morning it roars. Parks must be kept neat, Shadows free of mystery, Banks smoothed innocent Of raccoon tracks, Creek fished clean of brush, Mossclog, dripping Playground ball. The dozer stalls into silence. Over the hillcrest mild air eases Whirrs of mowers greenly leveling, Naturalizing meadow into diamond.

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