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Under-Window Jazz

Who can remember the song of frogs

in late September, when it's crickets

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filling up the woods with tin

contralto? It's the hum of stars

that swing the season into fall,

a shift of chords. And then

the year just keeps on improvising,

full-moon fingerings on snow.

And then - remember how they come

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again: one peeper, then the wood frogs,

a thousand invisible bassmen, each one

tuning, warming up, quickening the beat.

By April, all those jazzmen playing

their throats out for spring.

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