Dusk would fall, and the tattered clouds would scud and tumble over the emptying branches of the trees. Crows would call to one another. Leaves would tumble past my feet.

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Few creatures are less well-suited to a Quaker existence than a magpie. We are flashy: not a respectable grey, but eye-catching black and white, with blue and green highlights. We are irrepressibly noisy. For all that we are officially songbirds, our song sounds like anything but prayer (even though sometimes that’s just what it is).

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