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68 It moves like a kingfisher skimming the river, like hummingbirds that blur and dart. Minutely, as even fixed stars move, their travel traced by years of patient eyes. Like clouds, or like a coin in water, slow-falling toward other bright or tarnished hopes. Like flame chewing a match, a bicycle’s spoked wheels. Like pollen. Pressure. Snow. Or like roses sent as a gift, inside a box inside a truck inside the night. Or the woman who waits for them, reading in bed, who doesn’t know she’s waiting; who probably doesn’t think of petals just then, of what in any dark space might appear. ...

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