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Key City Blues
by Glenna Luschei
Something melancholy about the South . . .
Mourning doves carry voices
from the Civil War.
Spring, its symphony of goldfinch,
August, the black swallowtail butterfly.
Everything that flies carries lament
on the wing. I live in a fortress of air,
ticking white pine, a rumble in the Blue
Ridge. Something flies through the South,
with ancestral voices.
“Let us cross over the river,
and rest under the shade of the trees.”
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