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the winter in the hills

go faster when the wind blows, the

elder woman says to her

falcons.  She can flap her own arms

and watch the young smitten children,

telling truth and lies, walking on

stilts and leaning over, tripping

on roots and jumping over rivers.  She flaps away snow

and touches rainbow nations with her

new wings, the hair curls south, dogs

bark at her garden, neighbours

pour won wine.  She tells the crows that

the winter is a place to die.

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