Migration, charcoal on paper, 16 x 20

Hope is a thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
 And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
 I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea:
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.                           Emily Dickinson
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