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<blogEntry id="3122">
	<title><![CDATA[The Kingfisher;  Mary Oliver]]></title>
	<body><![CDATA[The Kingfisher rises out of the black wave
like a blue flower, in his beak
he carries a silver leaf.  I think this is
the prettiest world--so long as you don't mind
a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn't have its splash of happiness?
There are more fish than there are leaves
on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher
wasn't born to think about it, or anything else.
When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water
remains water--hunger is the only story
he has ever heard in his life that he could believe.
I don't say he's right.  Neither
do I say he's wrong.  Religiously he swallows the silver leaf
with its broken red river, and with a rough and easy cry
I couldn't rouse out of my thoughtful body
if my life depended on it, he swings back
over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it
(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly.]]></body>
	<date>01-05-2008</date>
</blogEntry>
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