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July 12th 2010    Tim Candler

    No dew this morning.  Last night might have been a perfect night to sleep outside, under a mosquito net, and protected by ear plugs because there is an unattached boy Mockingbird driven by angst to sing unrequited through the hours of darkness.

     Poor fellow is forlorn sometimes.  Gazing into emptiness.  For him, voice for voice sake has no legitimacy.  It hurts my soul to think of him so damned by circumstances.   And I wonder whether he is my Close Mockingbird

   Some days ago I saw a Merlin.   He was in a long dive from the Tall trees to the South, heading North.  His wings had the sweep of death and he was silent.   I knew he was there before I saw him, because when he is around no one sings, no one calls to the morning.

     So I wonder. 

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