11: This grain of rice in my palm. Never has exactly this.

121: Overhead. Enormous white white bird, legs folded under. She is long-necked and going somewhere. Fast. Hunter of fish, perhaps, with one of those names: Great or Blue or something. Snowy. A celebrity bird flying right over my own head. No mere gull. No crow. Somebody with a wingspan that humbles the rest of us. So. This bird way up high and I think, man, if I could hold that animal. I mean if she looks still that big to me from this far away. Then. If she were caught in a net or something. If I tried to gather her in my arms like a thrashing clammy child, all hinging long legs and frantic. Feathers sharp. I don’t think I could.

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