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I hear the sound of wings
beating against thick, lofty air.
A million shards of glass embedded in a deep,
night sky.
This is the stillness before the shutter slams shut,
then a moment of black.

I think in strands of moments:
a string of beaded
dew upon a rounded web,
fragile against an unexpected wind.
It scatters orbs that disappear,
and I am in such awe
that I forget to breathe.

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Julia Vradenburg

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