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31 Corbie Rex I have dined with kings, I’ve been offered wings. Bob Dylan I wear the robes of the mine-deep night. I spread my wings, the stars fall, the moon buttons shut. The River of Heaven runs dry. I am the mystery of all unformed, unknown, unnamed. I am laced with iridescence. I gave birth to the Northern Lights. I can tell you what is coming: the migratory winds whisper as they ferry me home: tornado, tsunami, monsoon. I break the code in the soldiers’ march: war in the north, war in the south, war brewing in the caldron. I circled witches on the heath near Forres. Of all the winged species, I alone know the art of speech. But you do not listen, preferring your own bluster, the thunder of shotgun, arrogance of buckshot. I carried messages to Odin. I fed Elijah in the wilderness. I guide the dead to their rest. You do not often glimpse me in ceremonial dress. I appear only to those who believe: in dream, in story told by firelight, in what the folk know deep in their animal hearts. In what wolves yip to their pups. A tower of stone is good as any scepter, any throne. ...

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