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Poem	Four Tao philosophers as cedar waxwings chat on a February berry bush in sun, and I am one. Such merriment and such sobriety-- the small wild fruit on the tall stalk-- was this not always my true style? Above an elegance of snow, beneath a silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four birds. Can you mistake us? To sun, to feast, and to converse and all together--for this I have abandoned all my other lives.
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