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Hindsight Story Night #55

My sheets run these flaky trails

The screen door slams me out into the see-your-breath morning, and I leap off the steps.

I run the teeth through a spruce. It spits wood in my face that bounces off the goggles.

The teeth come red through the top of my shoe, and red flies out into the wood chips and needles.

I hold out my palm, where four birds aren’t.

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