Three ivory spires
rise up from a small hollow
where the road curves round
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There’s a clamoring of geese,
Raucous along the horizon
Beneath a bight blue sun
Of petulant February.
Their wild spear points form
And shatter and form again;
They careen across the skies now,
For they are hunting the spring;
And the blue sun rides the heavens
With them, tumbling the clouds;
His coming thrusts them aside
Like frost upon the…
