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Monday, January 17, 2011

Cormorants (Mary Oliver)

All afternoon the sea was a muddle of birds,
black and spiky,
long-necked, slippery.

Down they went
into the waters for the poor
blunt-headed silver
they live on, for a little while.

God, how did it ever come to you to
invent Time?

I dream at night
of the birds, of the beautiful, dark seas
they push through.

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