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A song, through the wind to my ears. A robin withdraws from spatting sparrows to rest in April snow.

Wordless, sparks in the mist, crystal airwaves of the evening sky land on my hood.

I sense your presence, unseen and formless. Or is it here I see you?

Low branches, laden with snow rich as cream, point and sway like accusatory fingers as I pass. I remember then

those pews of my youth, where I once sat hunched and unmoved. Those words could not tame me.

Now, wings lift her body branch to branch, head bowed at berries and

I hunger for your words as I close my eyes in prayer.

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