The Golden Farce
You are standing in the middle of the rain, holding a bird that is not alive, and the mud is sucking at your boots with a wet, heavy sound that feels like it is pulling you down into the earth, and you are not crying, you are just breathing, which is a shallow, jagged thing in your chest, and the rain is cold enough to sting the skin of your forearms where you have rolled up your sleeves to try...
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