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  • She lives in the wedge between town and wilderness.
    Abandoned farmland. Neither here nor there. Returning to the wild. Maybe. At least she'd like to think so.

    Most mornings she walks the fields to take in the subtle shifts from the day before. Sometimes she lies down to listen. Sometimes she stands still to see. Sometimes she takes off her shoes to feel. Things quiet down in her presence. She knows she misses most of it. Perhaps even the point if there is one.

    One day she goes to the city to take in the human story, the other story. In its most complete isolation. And perfect self. She stands still to see the flash and swirl of the street. She leans against a building to listen to the traffic song. She feels the air to reconnect. To remember.

    Then, just as she's about to turn away, something catches her eye: beyond the hodgepodge of street hawkers a great hawk lands on an iron fence. Looks about. Looks at her. Tilts its head. Moves along the fence. And is gone.

    No one notices. She reaches her arms to the sky. No one notices. She calls out. No one notices.

    She moves into the stream of people hurrying along and adjusts her rhythm to theirs.
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