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Patricia Hooper My Junco poetr y This morning another wild flight interrupted: the Dark-eyed Junco hitting the picture window-- no, he was dead, not stunned. And how elegant he was when I lifted him from the patio-- slate feathers and soft gray throat. And how perfectly he fit the palm of my gardening glove as I wrapped him in oak leaves and buried him in the earth. Another of the world's beautiful ideas lost, but nourishing the next one-- those Whirlwind anemones I planted under the oak tree beside him-- next summer's wings. SPring 2 016 / T HE MiS S OUri rE V iE W 113 In Tennessee The Blue Ridge at sunset--hardly a missed note in the hemlocks where a mockingbird is singing even before a falcon dips, then glides over the valley, indistinct from here except that the bird falls lower than the chair I'm sitting in, and disappears. The sky is the color of pomegranate, and the balcony slips into shadow like the distant hills. No wonder that the mockingbird is singing a medley of every song he knows, no matter whose. No wonder that he sits in the glow of a single flood
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Apr 20, 2016
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