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Wet night at May's onset.

The dog's claws tick along the sidewalk,

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disappear in the darkness.

But I linger beside my neighbor's garden,

overcome by the hot honeyed scent.

I close my eyes, a darker dark,

and for the first time this year

breathe in spring's green commencement.

The next morning, passing by, I discover

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the source of my enchantment:

the pale sawdust swirls across the pavement.

Though I couldn't fathom whim or reason,

he's taken down the line of old balsam

that marked the border

between mine and his.

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