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23 Appalachian Mustard Seed Hope is a thing with feathers. . . . Emily Dickenson So tiny it might be thought to be a bug—an odd beetle— or a tuft of cottonwood taken by the wind. Mountain folk call it the mustard bird. They say it appears— when you need to believe. In what, it never matters. The need takes you to alone space—the dark barn, the path through the woods, the room with one window. Here you might offer the crumb of a prayer. You might say if only if only if only— When you grow silent you will feel a flutter— if you are lucky. You will feel claws become your roots. ...

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