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    Sound has an uncanny way to take us back in time. I once had the good fortune to spend time on an isolated island off New England.  Mornings, I’d take a secret path that stopped at a seawall. I went to hear the crash of waves, the screech of gulls, while gushing idioms on paper scraps, words marveling over the joy that made for fleeting days, or the nights the islanders sang, or the chapel, where feathers floated through the air as we hailed meandering poets reciting odes and poesy. Strange that I can’t find that isle, or remember  the phrases or words we’d crushed into verse, but the melody of those days has lingered.


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