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Signs and/or Wonders Young rabbit dodges past me, skirts crawdad hole, then dives into bushes beside a high stone wall, I follow, after the light turns green, avoid the mud beside a leaking fire hydrant, then trot into the Public Library's main branch. A hawk sails slowly from out of the west, skimming the foliage ocean we call Forest Park, then glides north along Kingshighway to hunt or roost among abandoned tenements resembling pictures of Dresden after WWII. I top off my tank and drive the other way. Deer are growing fat again I see as they graze sweet spring grasses along a slope. Three does, I think, wondering where their buck might be when some fool in front of me lays on the horn before exiting Highway 40 and disappearing up the Boone's Crossing ramp. One, then another, and yet a third coyote yaps, different sounds from the dog whose scream of pain abruptly shreds the night; bags of mall merchandise--shoes and shirt, a CD-rustle as I hang a left at the corner, roll on through slumbering Chesterfield. Breeze teases steam from coffee as I listen to crows greeting the dawn and each other; is it by mystic bent or hidden fears-if these are not somehow the same-I sometimes read too deeply for portents and mysteries in wonders which are not signs, but merely are?
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