map of the morning

Crows dissect the morning moon and scream instead of laughing. Silver cobwebbed pools of light gather across the ground. There are no mentions of death or life here, only the blurry pulsing motion of two nameless forces who grip each other in an infinite wrestling match. They are sightless bloody furious fighters with cracked knuckles and broken teeth and restless aching bones. Jagged lengths of fencing twist from their rightful places, struggling lifelessly until they are silenced by trees with starved fingers who curl back from the edge of the fire. They will bear their warrantless scars through the end of summer—leaving dark lines of ash across the faces of animals searching for safety. The marks will fade after a dozen nights of unsheltered rain and bleached sunlight, mornings spent burrowing deep into shaded places for a moment of unsettled rest.

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