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Savoring the Thrush's Song

In this wood

after the rain

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I listen to the singing.

The feathered tones

unfurl,

uncage.

Sound's awash

in this space,

and as I listen

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the past's alive

as present.

Bird-wise beauty

outwits age

as hearing, sight,

smell, and touch

coalesce

synaesthetically

and once again,

I can finger the fragrant song

of the thrush.