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[27] A SINGLE FALLING NOTE ABOVE this chorus of blossoming: some unseen bird, calling the echo that returns, so each joy’s doubled, brings back its twin— Whatever name you might give it, whatever undertone it rings, each bright ripple shades toward deepening. I used to wonder what it might feel like, pushed closer toward the front of the line—place of dubious honor: the one called on by whatever might demand a reckoning. My hair not all completely grey, my hems not fully rent or frayed; my nerves, my hands not all quite wrung. I know the days we file away will not return; this light that pulses like music in a cage, will go under the velvet hood. The silver bar inside will swing as gently even then: its occupant, slight of muscle, heart large as a sea, will dream of trinkets thrown into the depths. O, nothing’s ever lost, only unseen, those times the light goes out. ...

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