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By John I. Blair

Sometimes on a moon-drenched Southern night,
When the soft light makes the live oaks gleam
And all is still and sleeping,
A sweet and trilling song will fill the air,
So thrilling to hear it can make the hair
Stand up along my neck.

A mockingbird is singing,
And it seems as if the whole world stops to listen
And nothing moves while the song is there.

I never ask why the mockingbird sings
In deepest night when surely no rival stirs
But take it as a given
That sometimes even mockingbirds
Sing just because they can.

2002 John I. Blair

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