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Under-Window Jazz

Who can remember the song of frogs

in late September, when it's crickets

filling up the woods with tin

contralto? It's the hum of stars

that swing the season into fall,

a shift of chords. And then

the year just keeps on improvising,

full-moon fingerings on snow.

And then - remember how they come

again: one peeper, then the wood frogs,

a thousand invisible bassmen, each one

tuning, warming up, quickening the beat.

By April, all those jazzmen playing

their throats out for spring.

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