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  • They found her on the moors. Buried with her baby. Both cradled on a swan's wing.

    I sometimes wonder about her. Was it a comfort? Her child still in her arms? To fly to the afterlife under the crackle of ice on the turf? Down in the cold, broadbacked moor someone had worried about the chill. Swaddled them in a blanket of downy feathers. Nestled them in the crook of a wing's sinew.

    Later it was said that there had been lightning. Work rained off. Bronze Age earth mysteries preserved for another dig. The crack of an opening wing taking flight.
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