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  • Once, Hurricane Earl roared thousands across the ocean - a skiff of painted ladies. It was noted as a particularly good year. Heavy rain in their Atlas mountain nursery forced an early migration across the sea. They descended like spores on coastal thistles, tracing well-worn neural pathways across the sea. Trails hardened by synapses, electrical volts curlicuing across the sky.

    This year, I'll find one. Kohl rimmed wingtips and belladonna eyes winking from a thistle or a forlorn railway station hanging basket.

    I'm waiting for them now. They're not in the picture yet. But there is sun on my back and flowers are growing in the cracks in the pavement. It won't be long.
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