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On my way home
The Dime
Three times a coarse, black bird flew at my head, driving me on, off, away. It was the kind with a caw and craw, and somehow I had attracted its ire. Perhaps it was acting with some protective nature that I cannot attribute to such birds, even on my most giving of days. It flew close enough for me to swipe at it, if I had more cat in my nature. Strange I should be so avianly affronted during the weekend when I realize the birds I love; the crane and loons on Loring Lake, the red-winged blackbirds that dart among the golden-dry reeds near the shore.

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Meow, meow, meow...

Your poetic verse was particularly to the liking of Spanky and Baby. They were on the edge of their seats the whole time. They would like to request more poetry of a avian-variety. Now they need to lick their fur and take a nap. But they did tell me to tell you to keep up the good work.

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