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Flecked with grey
Rests upon the white picket fence
Chirps to the winds hollow
Pecks at the chipped paint
Feathers fan in the draft

Its eyes leer at me
Through the single pane window
Head cocked to the side

Upheaving it's rested wings
It Flies away home
Come back I holler
But all that is left
Is an ashen calamus

Onto the next rampart it rests
Onto the next soul it apprehends

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