Robert Dana Biography

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My cat ate a wren this morning, one of a pair.
He seemed just to take it from the air.
Now her mate is cleaning out their nest,
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Blessed is the beach, survivor of tides.

And blessed the litter of crown conchs and pen shells, the dead blue crab
in all its electric raiment.
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Half-Irish, half-Italian.
A Gemini.

Two operas. One for each head.
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Early evening.
The trees turning black and blacker.
The snow turning blue.
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