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winter migrants gather in long black lines along a silver sleek heads held back, throats thrust toward an onshore rush occasionally cruciform, static in a flying wind as though in obeisance to the sea each tide a season in the pecking mall TOM PICKARD | 76

retracing steps washed out by whimpering silt they call as I approach, an upright spelk on their shelf, gathering my notes and theirs we scavenge ahead of our shadows waiting for what the tide brings in or leaves out 77 | WINTER MIGRANTS

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TOM PICKARD | 76

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