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.:. No Birds 14 This sunny early March morning the wind rips in and the world swings, bare golden willows, bones of lilacs, withered mountain laurel. No birds, the icy air is alone out there. Not one red bud along the branches of the maple thinks of opening. Not in this wind that would tear your every breath away, scatter it nowhere. No birds want that. Let the bright ragged day blow by, see what shakes loose: leaves, a garbage can lid, papers, a hat. ...

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