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A few years back, I worked with this guy, by the name of Bob, at the same airline I work for now. He was an older fella—I figure he was in his sixties—so he probably had a good twenty-five or thirty years on me. He was one of those types that…
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This is the spring of my inglorious trifecta: a bunion, arthritis, varicose veins. Compared to my daughter’s, my feet are stumps. Hers flex and curve, dart, propel her up the stairs, through the sprinkler, over the prickly lettuce …
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I’ve never liked birds. There’s something smug about the way they look at us, we prisoners of gravity, something self-congratulatory in their songs. Maybe I’m just projecting my own feelings about being stuck on the ground, attributing attitudes t
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"... a gaggle of scientists decided to classify the Bernstein bird a “Purplex Complex,” as it could sing more than one tune., in perfect pitch. But not only: it could sing more than one tune at a time, generally at least three tunes, which made neighb
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On the day they were born, the old mother eagle named her chicks Faith, Hope, and Charity.
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He turned the pages for me, reverently, slowly--pointing out other birds, repeating their names, sounds strange and mysterious to my ears, went on, bird after bird, and when I reached my stop and rose to leave, he was still whispering their names like a c
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Sitting at an outside table at the Bassett Café
on West Broadway, I remember, in the background
always the Twin Towers behind me
in the photographs from that time
And the sparrows in New York, bolder than anywhere
working over the scrap
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Shared course: the rivers and the streams
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They live a simple life..two solitudes by lamplight.
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My mate and I are owned, but have freedom to take to the endless sky.
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Twisting and twirling, nearing velocity terminal, the wishbones in their chests rise and fall with the cadence of different bird songs calling. As they whistle down each is distinctively screaming.
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We all thought, Birds! We all thought, Nests inside the chimney!
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I'm at the edge of the garden in a white nightgown embroidered with lilies. This keeps happening without my permission; a sleepwalk, a run-away. The scent of my best perfume kneels beside me here. I sift through the soil where I…
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my hand is closing;grasping insubstantialair particles thatescape into my fleshypink lungs. imaginary magpies take flight fromthe runways of my whorled greymind. their wingbeats soundlike dust at the morning's end;like finality…
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You found the old general rocking in his library, half asleep in the dog days of what he calls his retirement, a corncob pipe clenched between his withered graying lips. Rifle barrel leveled at your chest.…
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