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49 GRACE When light stretches from what we call yesterday to what we call tomorrow, the smallest winged ones who winter over tuck seeds in the peeled-back scrolls of paper birch, sunflower and millet they’ll revisit in the last gasp of light iced over at forty below, black capped and boreal whisks skimming spruce needles, skimming last birch buds— stylized grace no gesture wasted, women bending in kimono— ancient refinement—survival’s ceremony green, startling, frothy tea. ...

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