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Kathy Bradley - Caribou and coyotes
Kathy Bradley
Kathy Bradley
The fog thins just enough for me to see the sun, a flat white communion wafer floating in a halo of wavy opalescence. The trees and fences and barns beneath it stand unusually straight, as though three dimensions are not enough to spotlight their long lines and sharp angles. My hand on the steering wheel moves left and right, in the easy rhythm of a weaver’s shuttle, following the curves of the road toward that flat white sun onto which it was easy to believe that, if I just keep going, I could slide like a base runner stealing home.
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