We find you, dear Wing, in the half-dark on the way back from the piglets, your knuckle of raw bone and streak of claw-white quills torn from the socket.
A grey goose soars up high where hot-air balloons drift and the wind is a shape to wrap yourself around solid but unseen, a somersault inside the womb;
here, folded to a cup of hands, plump as a wood pigeon in the long, flat January grass you are singular and intense like a girl breathing quietly by a window, her just-cut hair pressed against the glass.
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