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63 TheWoodpecker sounds like a donkey braying or a madman laughing from the depths of his grave. Hee-haw, hee-haw, he says. What a wig for this weather! A crimsoned head-wound, the deep red of bright torment: crown that’s a verb. Little tuxedoed, tree-clinging tyrant, acorn-baron, squawker and hawker, robber of silence—your beak wakens the sleeping drummers in the blood, the rats in the eaves, all the mumblers. The roof rattles a staccato. In flight, white underwings flash, the air drags behind you in a thin comet, the forest pauses. ...

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