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November, 2017 after Claude Monet, The Magpie, 1868-1869 by Wanda Schubmehl That is no magpie on the gate. The trickster, light, pushes winter's silence deep into the canvas, snow and shadows also just illusion. I yearn for a thing of feathers to herald my soul's return from frozen exile. I stare at brushmarks until I can configure you, Magpie, a harbinger, alive, sunlit, and surely, surely, just about to sing.
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