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The space between the cries of the Screech Owl is larger than the space between mid-October breakers, crash upon crash upon stone. The voice leaves you thinking, someone has left you alone, not for a moment but in the background noise that implies the impossibility of silence. Owl cry is more a sonorous trace than a sound; sound delimits a thing where the trace is a sketch of life already erased, ringlets in the August morning lake where the pebble splunked, a split second before. Erasure, ringlets, the Owl’s cries remind of you of a time when you were both there.

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