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Sometimes the wind whistles through the pineboughs
making purple shadows on the ground, Sometimes

the sound steals into my brain, leaves me restless
like the whistle of a passing train, or the night call

of a snowy owl. There are times I fight the urge
to fly, and then again, there are those sometimes

when I spread my wings and head for open sky,
like now, as I lose myself in dogeared pages

of stacks of magazines, You know– the cherished
ones, with words that reawaken dreams.