in an uncultivated world of peerless

wild, crows will pick clean an exotic

carcass. this is the nature of the

beast. nothing will be left but blood

and bones, surrounded in a wreath

of baby blue eyes blooming. this is

the chaste spoils of a godforsaken

soil. a bravado conspiracy left from

a northern wind. with the bow of

a limb from burdensome snow the

heart will accommodate for the

light. creatures will stir in its belly.

an inevitable balance of agitation

and reconciliation, of infinite natality

and mortality for the mammoth and

the minuscule. all the produce of this

hinterland venerates the seasons.

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