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...Of such pauses...

All week a small bird

we can't identify

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has run up a flag

of fine notes

to the morning air

from bare branches

of dogwood.

Without request,

unpaid for, through walls

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and windows closed

to the still cold air,

its unhesitant panache unfurls

from a body small as the bold

yellow throat of crocus

below him,

a style bigger

than containable, together

of earth and sky,

the ribbon of a route

the heart can turn to...

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