Slick-bodied brown wings brushing silver surface, black beak first and he at the river edge, stepping into the water, the only man in the world, entranced by broad and stretched wing fingertip, brings cupped palms of water to lips and swallows his mouthful, lips curling at the end into, “Mine,” this claim from the deep, so resounding, so sure of itself, and it struck me because no, not even God had sounded like that.
The lamp’s always on
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