The Pale Bonsai
You carry the pale bonsai in a brass bowl lashed to your chest with a length of field cord, and you walk west along the dry riverbed where the willows have all turned the color of bleached bone, and the little tree rides against your sternum like a second heart, calm and obstinate, and over the eleven days since you left the garrison you have learned to breathe around it, to carve your ribs...
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