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Wash

 All day the blanket snapped and swelled
on the line, roused by a hot spring wind.
.
.
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From there it witnessed the first sparrow, early flies lifting their sticky feet, and a green haze on the south-sloping hills.
Clouds rose over the mountain.
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At dusk I took the blanket in, and we slept, restless, under its fragrant weight.

by Jane Kenyon
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