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PAZ

March 26, 2012

For the bird hanging upside-down from the budding branch of a hawthorn, the sky becomes a sea, in the blues of which the bird might swing from low to high, from the cloudless deeps to the vault of the earth. Even for the bird upright on its branch, it is not at all clear that up should be up and down down, for who I am to say what is what in the mind of the bird, this other?

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