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Smoke drifts through the trees. The fire sparks and eats away at the branches. I wear my fingers raw on a hazelnut branch for marshmallows.

Marshes. Home of the redwing blackbirds. Out where the homeless human lives. Reflector of the moon’s face on a night before endings.

Some people must be wrapped up in a bubble made of rainbow inkiness. They cannot touch the outside world. Cleanliness has too heavy a meaning to them.

Smoke billows upwards like spirits set free. The new leaf curls and twists in the flames and is consumed. The end of my stick is frayed; each thread snapped.

Snap. The sound of a shell breaking beneath my shoe. Sway. The motion of a sinking crab shell. Eddies. Where the moon’s influence meets the cageless sea.

Freedom. A release.

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