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It is U.S. Independence Day
and here in our country
the day dawns
softly.
Before I can see it,
the sun colors clouds —
and the bowl of waning moon—
pink.
This July morning is not brassy and hot.
It is not shouting and exploding.
It is whispering.
Meadowlark’s clear notes
ring through the sweet hush.
Mockingbird sings a few songs,
until Kildeer cries.
Doves coo off in the distance
and,
too long absent,
two hummingbirds whir passed
the sugar water waiting on the porch.
Sister Mockingbird comes to sit
close, on a branch,
again.
When I find her face among the leaves,
looking my way,
she says something in one soft syllable.
I weep.
It is interdependence day
in our country.

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