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By Elizabeth Smith Two magpies glide to the tree Outside our bedroom window. “Look!” I whisper to my daughter, Who looks too much like me Today: tangled hair, still In a nightgown, wet nose. She raises her feverish head From our pillow, and the magpies Hop along the branch, screech To each other, then Flutter off. “Birdies!” she says. “Come back tomorrow?”

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