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Ginger Murchison – Ⅰ

Whitman’s Hermit Thrush 





The brightest star down, it’s this gray-brown meager bird’s

sweet, reedy mourning, that one brittle pitch,


grief large enough for the pain, an orange wire

right through the brain, a bullet to bite on,


one piece of clean, cold metal scraping another

like hunger, a train with its brakes on.


That tiny shy bird looks like nothing out there, but that one clear note

of song on and on is the screech of a screen door—


somebody leaving

or someone come home.