short stories



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It was the silhouette
of a raven in a

The skull
of a pied crow
in the leaves

A wasps’ nest
hung from the branches
of a tree

The stem of a feather
and the bones of a bird
are hollow

This is our life
the one that accumulates
not the one of our dreams

It leaves a record
on our bodies
and minds

We saw the stumps
of dead trees
in the snow

A leaf in a stream
was dried to its

A photo of a city
taken from a satellite
looked like a wasps’ nest

We shielded our eyes
and saw the bones
of our hands

This was
the language
of our thoughts

We were
buried in

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