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She too could not outdistance or erase

the echo of a voice,

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the sound of laughter

the bubbling flash of mischief

in some one's eyes,

even the silhouette

etched by the sun,

one hand halfway upraised,

as though to speak

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in its own silent language,

a last farewell.

Lost in the pincer grip

of an old yearning

that should have been

so long ago outrun,

she thought again

of an emerald bird -

and how, long, long

after it was gone,

a fugitive green feather,

delicate as lace,

somehow, drifting downward,

brushed her face.

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