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33 A Body in Between Above the narrow road, a sky of starlings circle like a ragged whirlwind settling in the fractaled branches of three oaks. They splash their black ink on the canopy— right for this Day of the Dead. Dark music, too, a cloud of caws, no tune, no timing, just the metallic rasp. Now all at once they lift from the oaks, a school of fish unanimous as though they felt the season going and knew those hickories over there would warm their feet. Down below, two black horses stand exactly still, giving that random world up there something it can count on—eight legs, two necks, both aimed northwest. I offer a body in between. Not that shapeless surge, moved by some blue magnetism. Not those sure-hooved shapes that know. My skeleton pays homage to the Day. Muscles nod to the hickories, now the birds have left. My veins salute the horses, who follow with their eyes as I walk by to supper. ...

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