...Of such pauses...

All week a small bird

we can't identify

has run up a flag

of fine notes

to the morning air

from bare branches

of dogwood.

Without request,

unpaid for, through walls

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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