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24 two on the ground Along the road, a flutter like winter-black leaves, inner-tube rubber. I stop the car, and it’s birds locked together, one pinned to the snow, wings beating, flapping like bats, the way film sped up obliterates grace. Then separate, graceful again, they swoop to the gutter of a trailer. In a series of still shots, disintegration is instant, the chair whole, the chair broken, none of the wobbling, the squeaking, the child kicking his heels, tilting back on two legs, standing on the rungs. We talk about people this way, whole and broken. That’s not how it is, no matter how it looks—two on the ground, one hovering over the other. ...

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