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55 Early Spring From my perspective, as a bird, everything seems the same when I fly over your town. The little rectangles of your houses are outlined in snow. I don’t see praise or blame, I see food, which I need full-time. Yesterday I came up from another patchwork place, obeying some inside command so basic it felt like an impulse, or free will. The small flight plans—from branch to branch—are mine. I stand where I stand, then I’m gone. And I forget it all, though something in me remembers the larger strategy that makes no sense, and doesn’t have to. If I should fall my feathers will disappear last of all. And the small beads of brightness—my alert eyes—dim immediately, so you’ll know I’m gone. My song is complete, but clearly part of an orchestra tuning up, and not yet here. ...

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