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12 The Kill It is spring before the owls hatch, the ground is hard, the day sky white at noon. White, everything white. Such a clean place to die. In the air, a chill, a chattering of bird-angst, and the hum of green flies, satisfied, as if it is kindness that spreads them over the doe. When they move her body seems to move. When they scatter I think she wants me to see her. I look away and hear the sound that was her breathing. ...

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