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Migration

nice

northwest journals

When I wake, I am lying in a field stretched taut over a hill. The knife in my hand gleams in the still-blinking dawn, and I see the patch I’ve cut down in the switchgrass. Its shape reminds me of you. The fire is slow to start, but it is rare that something stands between me and my work. I gather blackberries and wild mint for my breakfast, scattering stags from the creek bed. I stare at the flames as I sip and chew. I write in my journal of the Cheshire moon the night before, how its malice kept me up too late. Then I swear to the page that I will find a hill every twilight on my journey, and I will shave the switchgrass into that same shape. After a week there will be seven oracles. After a month there will be an army. I say a silent prayer to the birds then. That…

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