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8 the minnesota review Bob Vance In the Sad World the last medicine of the deep trees is razed. Birds have nowhere to roost but in the sides of cliffs. Thousands of winged races die. Flesh eaters remain, the devourers of the dead. Women raise banners to save each species but are told their part is to hatch more young. "But it's the birds we are afraid for!" they lullaby. None the less, even those walls of rock give in to the long waves. A whole new race of flying things explodes out from the cliffs falling like glaciers and, in helix upon helix, the winged things rise. No song, no gentle v-shape accent for an early moon. There will be plenty of dead. The women knew this and they were left at home Their hunters have nothing left to hunt but each other. ...


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