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17 Onyx Eclipse Some say it’s not a bird, can’t be, because it rolls across the sky, an eightball on a felt of blue, dropping into a pocket of leaves, a noisy nest. Granted, sometimes it seems no more than shadow, a suggestion of a bird, but not a bird, a black sun rising fast, perhaps a flap or tail attached, a rudder, not a wing. But others say the wings are tucked, held in like prayer or breath, exhaled to give it lift, a hot-air bird without a flame or basket. Those who spot through scopes or lenses swear they see the feet pulled in like landing gear, snapped tight against the belly, rolled in round. What I have seen: the eye, the bright moon viewed from my night side. ...

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