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ELLEN BRYANT VOIGT | The Feeder
10.
So: she's found me here:
chief bird of my childhood,
gray, pillow-breasted,
only needed asking—
no, only the crumbs
of others' invitations.
She waddles beneath the feeder,
retrieving what she can
from the hulls, the debris dropped
to the grass by the glamorous birds,
thrusting her undersized head
forward and back, forward
and back again. And her call,
alto, cello, tremolo,
makes the life I've made
melt away. previous
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