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Wild music
Gathering geese
Great in number
And loud across the silver waters
Echoing across the rushy hillside
To the summit
Where I wait.
Dark Ravens
in the heavens
Calling down
In spirals
As they soar
Upon the thermals
Rising softly
From the moor
Cool and clear
A stong wind blowing
And winter feed
is right for stacking
Dried and tied
And dressed in black

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