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by Mary Brunini McArdle

Shhh. The night bird calls
From the giant mimosa tree;
He shifts his perch, and
Patterns glide across the ground
Like fronds of lace, while
Pallid moonlit blossoms pose
Atop the drooping branches.
Moisture beads up on the petals,
Insects quieted, summer resting.
Shhh. The night bird calls.

Copyright © 2006 by Mary Brunini McArdle

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