Fingerlings

Echoes from the rod and gun club make me look up from the white pages that blow in the wind as I loose them. Fingers are the key to holding the weight. Each finger squeezes steel on the other side of the woods on the other side of the apple farm which is where each butt wears cammo, each foot in work boots. The reverberations of the phonocamptics don’t seem to disturb the vultures on the roof of the diserted house or the gulls whose white underwings capture the virgin nature of the pages before the text and the fingerprints.

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