Bones Hurt When They Have Flesh on ThemGary L. McDowell
Falls come suddenly. A kestrel's body language, the flipping of a wing that mimics a branch in the breeze. But who mourns the loss of a mouse, of a shrew. Sometimes an empty field becomes beautiful in the escaping light of evening. In hauntingly small lives we assemble this loop, this curl, where all flesh is not alike, where all shadows mistrust the darkness, and all bodies rise whether in a mouth or in heat. An hour is a patch of night-time on a hill, or the mirrors in the trees that help the kestrel hunt. We arrange God.
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