ant5

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a number of

machines are on

when I get home

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the jay seems

to think

everything is blue

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May on the way out

the pavement

greedy for rain

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she rubs

my temple with

her cilantro stained thumb

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tricks the eye

the red hen in her

wood chip dust bath

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the fat flies

of late May

harass you

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the gnats weave around

barely discernible

rain drops

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the green minarets

that will be

our garlic

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