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The overwintering robin, impatient at my digging
Sits above my head in the small apple.
For a time I stop, and we look, he
Like a general inspecting shabby troops,
And I, like an old man forking thick soil,
Claggy great cold January garden clay
leadening my boots and stinging my hands through wet gloves.

The robin’s withering contempt. “Old?
I’ll show you old.”
And flew away.