I will try. I will step from the house to see what I see and hear and I will praise it. I did not come into this world to be comforted. I came, like red bird, to sing. But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame and the red triangle of his mouth full of tongue and whistles, but a woman whose love has vanished, who thinks now, too much, of roots and the dark places where everything is simply holding on. But this too, I believe, is a place where God is keeping watch until we rise, and step forth again and - but wait. Be still. Listen! Is it red bird? Or something inside myself, singing? - Mary Oliver, Red Bird
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