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Running in the Rain Again; a Swede with Stout Legs
I run and think of running here the night After the first big rainstorm of the year, And the tide low, just a few people here, Wave-watchers, mostly, shapes making upright Thick ink-strokes on the louring watery light Between gray waves and low clouds, and the air Sharp and the beach vast, gaunt (with here and there Rank kelp-heaps), bending flatly out of sight. I’d finished fast and started cooling out, There’s a big Swede nearby doing same, Stretching and bending and then gazing about — And edging my way, I see, as if by aim; He says, “It’s beautiful, in its own way,” Walking past. “Yeh, it’s beautiful,” I say.
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