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86 The Peahens River noise replacements have appeared. Massive rumble of the freeway in the afternoon. Truck going down through its gears. Helicopter cutting a circle. Across the street the black-and-white dotted dog some call Daisy or Droopy or Bonnie looks like a cow grazing on the steep lawn. That’s where the peahens stood so still the day one of them walked in front of a car. Her wings hushed in air and whacked on the pavement and a thick red river of blood pooled like red tar on the asphalt. Her sisters stood like frightened girls or stone statues. They ignored the wake of bread bits and birdseed I set out. They didn’t venture onto the street much after that. Then someone shot one from its perch. One was stolen. One’s left. I hear her calling over the rush of wind in the avocado tree. ...

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