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On Disagreeable Temperaments and Peculiar Bird Calls

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The air is wet.
The walls, the pictures,
Are wet,
And drip softly onto the wood floor.

I cannot contain my rain cloud.

The birds sound like cell-phones.
Do not beep and flash in the product of my mood swings,
Flip open your wings
And fly to another birdbath.

I know the thunder,
I know where he lives.
I am not afraid to call him.





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