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37 Riverlands In the time it takes to recognize dead as dead I’ve stepped on an egret (long cross of its body, wings spread; even grounded it flies) and withdrawn, repulsed by the softness of it all. All this Missouri ground—open, sogged with August, morels swelling like lungs in the muck, and the bird barely touched. Its eyes are gone. Remember how I tried to make you fly? Motion in frost where the bees hived at the field’s other side—a rabbit’s bewildered leap in air and you, unhooded, taking your time. A great patience, and a fear of you not returning to my glove. Your heavy eye, your sight, was the straight line that taught me what isn’t dead is dying. You are gone weeks ago, released to the season, belonging to yourself. I return, mother enough to know the elastic band that keeps me circling the ground is love. The egret, still shining its whites, stares with nothing at nothing. Every wheeling shadow is your shadow. My mistake was believing I taught you to kill. I taught you to return. ...

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