This is a story
The birds were there and not there, flickering as darkly as the forest, in and out of the wind, those quick needles sewing the day to our blood.
She said, “They are seeds on the first breath of creation.”
She said, “Maybe there is a world where chaos is distinguishable from order, but I won’t go there.”
She said, “My bones are hollow, too, and when I tumble onto the grass with my arms wide, the sky falls into me.”
Her face was shining.
It breaks my heart when I remember that this was the day before the storm.
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