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4 January The water is blue-black then silver by noon. The snow has started. After we clear the doe of her heart and lungs, after we pour her insides out in a bucket, I find her hollow shape is the form I want to sink into, pushing my limbs into hers, running for her life through the valley— its grasses and pines, its lake and the circling of dihedral wings. Theirs is the mind I’ve tried to fall through, their alien strangeness. Only here in the grass is my real self—mammal-solid, her wide eyes cooling in her head. And the body that says I will never fly. If I could I would love her harder, would slip through the door of her ribcage into a new life—my head on her shoulders, my legs gone loose and airy for leaping—the old trick of a body transformed. ...

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