the blueshift journal

Collecting feathers in the yard,
he tells himself each soft bird body is only a harvest,

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a sprawl. He trims feather from soft wing,

down from skin. His hands shake.

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He saws branches from trees, snaps them,

convinces himself they will not be missed.

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In his eyes, they are not limbs.
He takes them to the kitchen, melts candles,

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smooths feathers over them. Outside, a sunny sky hides

a storm. A bird sprawls downwards,

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searches for its nest, finds air.