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The Changeover

By John Grey

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The cardinal’s done with its sweet clear whistles.

The veery’s song descends into silence.

The distant wit-wit-wit of the wood thrush

is the last I’ll hear today.

 

It’s dusk

and the little brown bat is on the wing.

There’ll be no music from that direction,

merely an irregular squeak.

 

The bat devours midgets and gnats,

moths and mayflies.

Even melody given half a chance.

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