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The Rain

All night the rain fell softly and slow, the sound
on the roof, on the pond, on the fields

falls on the memory, burning—

but gentle the rain
that quenches the night, that cleanses
the ash in my mouth

so that I wake to the wind in the cottonwood trees,
the glittering silver-green leaves

and when I walk to the creek
and lift the damp stones

salamanders gleam in orange and black coats,
seamless and shining and moist.




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