--Karina BorowiczOne by one the three stray geeseheading away toward Mt. Tom swerveand are pulled into the bold Vmoving toward me over the splinteredremains of the cornfield.It's almost Christmas.The gouged mud of the fieldhas frozen solid, sharpeven through boots.What do they feel through their feathers,up there, that's out of our reach?For a moment I imagine my hands piercedby all those quills.
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