I met miss blackbird in june,
her dun dress feathered across her sepia nest
and her bleak eyes set in ochre fixtures,
staring black through me, through the hollowed fronds
of the sambucus tree,
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Hold, fleeting kestrel, hold the draft above the pines.
Inanimate adjuster, one who refines,
who is marvelled, whose great achieve-of is
Stillness. No other living Stillness is as fine
as the windhover’s, who halts
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