Chukor

He chuckled to the moonlit night

Barred, browned plump partidge;

He looked like a magistrate

who had taken a bribe, securely smug;

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The hills of home

Of my own salt, these hills are made

I am made of them

grey stone

red dust

black wash--

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Fledgling wings in summer

There was the bird that flew because its wings were young,

For it knew it could fly, no matter if its young wings were untried-

Fledgling wings of violet-blue, deep, deep wings

that flew against the waves, flew against the sky

and knew there was nothing to it,

Nothing new, to that old sensation of flight when

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The Quetzal in my dreams

(i)

I remember the dream, before the birth,

how gently the soul breathed

silken strands of magic sleep

spun on sensuous songs, with

crystal-clarity and the eye turned inward

to the eye;

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Geese

When they flew in that sublime formation

On driven, flurried wings

Above the rough-edged rushes,

I dreamt—I dreamt of the radiance of souls,

Children of the morning,

Nourished in the warm twilight of eternity

Opening their luminous wings

To endless flight;

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