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40 BeachWinter Windows of gold light set against an unbroken backdrop of sea: winter is only a small sadness, a list of minor failures. The moon scatters a fistful of white birds. All night they unfold, dive and break at the shoreline or lie still in the tide pools. Sit long enough, and something arrives, lovely in its unexpectedness, like the slowness of a crane cutting the mist or the shock of stepping into living darkness. Then the ear becomes the ship, the wing stroke of midnight crossings. Imagine horses blacker than water, swimming out to sea. The birds, the horses, the listener on the shore, all entering disorder, breaking their ancient promise. The ship—no one ever sees— pulls up anchor. Above the rigging, cold filaments of distance. ...

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