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By Margaret Tsuda / March 17, 1981

I am that downy-breasted bird that fragile-winged bird of sweet/uncertain song. Harried/hunted endangered as soon as I leave my ark still I fly over roaring waters over uneasy waters looking always looking for a place on which the soles of my feet my little naked feet may rest. Yet I am that buoyant one that ever-expectant one ready to flutter palely down when hawks/ravens pause. Where I alight the olive has put forth its branch its budded branch whose slow-germinating seeds are eternally sown even in the same field as the quick-springing seeds of war.

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