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pelts the clearing at dusk like a star god's emissary sent to fetch the little fears. Or tucked into herself and the others in some attic corner ... that communal breath transmuted sky. The bat-to-recluse ratio: how many pups per philosopher's stone per winter. Just along this river? Just in this town?
Spring slips through the attic grate in long leather gloves and a pinch-purse and a beard. Turns so fast she appears to flicker. A perfection of the shortest distance. And accompanied by a music I'd like to hear.
the medicine jar