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The song sparrow on the spruce lifts a thin pattern of notes into bright summer like a gust of dandelion seeds. Those indelible notes bring back the forties, another sparrow there, who enlivened the victory garden we weeded with unwilling children's hands in heat and sweat. His song cheered us on, with all its verve, he leaning into it, enlarging the force of his tiny breath, lofting the music, which still floats on the sculpted air of memory. Such was the force of its gladness.

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