The dove catches an upward current. Up, up, up, he flies. As Icarus he melts, transfigured into a malformed crow. Caw, Ca-caw; the sickly cry tells tales passed from non compos mentis, to those I came from, to mine own ears so many years ago. "The lunatic is in my head", they said, and it's true; the woman speaks within me of crows telling tales of
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