The Pale Bonsai
The thing about the willow is that it does not break; it bends until the fibers inside it snap, a quiet, wet sound that only you can hear, a sound like a bone giving out under the weight of something that refuses to let go. You are standing in the mud of the drainage ditch, your boots sinking into the cold slurry of October, and you are holding the severed trunk in your hands, the sap weeping...
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