The earth is beaten into dull stuff. A smudge of sun rides
under the bellying sky. Winter is finishing slowly, like sap
over a wood fire. At Phil’s Restaurant, breakfast customers hash
over the Town Report. We still have our say.
We still sing our annual hymn of republic and objection. Now while sugar steams drifts, like March clouds, eastward, we lift our chalices of syrup to the resurrecting light.
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