They come when the first
dandelions,
tickled awake by sudden
shoots of green,
heave their yellow heads
beneath the mighty breeze
that echoes in the pale
arc of the sky.
They come Sunday
afternoons,
perched on their off-roads,
to paw the ditches like
bear just roused from rest.
There is the splintering
of brittle stalks;
the maul of the grass;
the snap of thick stems, sheltered
cool and close to the earth;
asparagus, pungent in
the palms.
Our children peer at them as
we pass
on our way to the evening
service.
They wave gloved hands and
swerve south,
like salmon, sprinting
upwind.
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