UNDERNEATH my window is a bush. In the bush is a finch, small, yellow-breasted, sharp beaked and black-eyed. It offers up its joyous and melancholy act to the red berries of the bush, urging them to applaud, then drop and burrow, to be consumed by inky soil and stink bugs, enveloped by slugs, shit out and sprinkled over the underground sky until they blossom on the new bush, the new bird, the new window, the new me

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