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  • Here, the undergrowth is fresh, and the Western Scrub-Jays sing. Here, there is quiet, from not too much noticing. Because the flowers are the commoners to this leafy terrain, and the Scrub-Jays are aware. They squabble. They squabble in their feisty energies, in knowledge of possibilities. Today, they shall play, make mischief, and flirt.
    For soon, many more flowers will bloom. And in this wild place, I know I can close my eyes and remember belonging.

    Brings to mind the poem I wrote in the unearthly hours before morning yesterday:


    A flower did awaken,
    A tender little thing,
    Like first infatuation,
    Or a beginning.
    She was a sweet, perfumed teenager,
    Healthfully excited,
    By mere ideas,
    Extravagant.
    She stretched herself to maybe peck,
    A sky or two,
    Doodling in green,
    With her leafy friends,
    But alas, she was a weed!
    An unwanted child,
    And they frisked her away!
    Last summer evening.
    But she did bloom again,
    quietly blushing.

    The flower is like me....and she wonders what the Western Scrub-Jays sing.
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