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The Yankees are in spring training
down in Florida.
I can feel them everyday
cracking their bats on anvils
with each warmer sunrise.
The Yankees pound quarters
out of the moon.
The Yankees knock birds out of trees
by the millions.
I can listen to them
chewing up the college squads
and minor leaguers
like wolves on a deer.
It is a thing to hear.
The snow
listens so hard it vanishes.
The pastures
clear themselves of everything
but wind.
The ponds collapse,
the ground moves.
The Yankees are heading north.
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