You there, scraping through the salmonberry leaves, slow-footed in the chutes of terraced clay, your eyes yellow, and seemingly lidless, the kind of eyes that belong to fish or reptiles. You walk, each step halting, perched, one leg lifted, talons stretched like spider-web, like an octopus wrapping its cloth body over a fish, parachute-like, the knobs of your leg joints carved from driftwood and bone, your feathers made of pampas grass, and blue cloud-light smoothed into porcupine needles, your head held straight and slinking, the creek reflecting up against your underbelly blue against the blue.
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