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The Magpie
by Jane Lang

They are in there, the house, its thatched roof
swaddled in nature's perfect blanket, cold
yet secure

Each branch on every tree is cloaked and as I
watch, from my vantage point, I am thinking of
days to come, when leaves are dappled by the sun
now shining on the new, fresh, pristine snow

You can see the imprint of his boots traveling to
this twig-bent fence as he takes an armful of sweet
smelling logs for the fire, his woman, his child,
asleep, cradled in a basket he fashioned from
those sturdy trees, guardians of his hearth

I ponder my place in this man's heart, will I
become a dab of black on a canvas after it has
been coated with gesso, dried by the fire, will
I become more than light, shadow of his pallet
or just the magpie sitting on the top rung of
the twig-bent fence singing a winter song


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