Beauty is rarely in the birds themselves, but in the spaces in between, where pockets of loneliness conjugate gulps and balance - between the breast's ventral midline, puffed out, as if a glass ball was kept always within feel of the body. When birds are this close, there is the black breath of else's fragrant wise. When they part, loneliness drops - shatters to wing - and the parting reveals their distance from each other, coming in aromas of terror.
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