Dust and Light

Before my sixth sense died at the tree of knowledge, I was as carefree as any child, any bird, any flower of the field. I was the new creation of every morning. All children are. Only four, I tasted fingers inked with mulberry blood and powdered with Texas dust. I rested in the shadow of squat trees, gnarled as old men's fingers, and cut grass with the swish of a mesquite switch I'd plucked from my canopy. These were my friends: the roadrunner; the scissor-tailed flycatcher; the grayed woman at the end of the road with the black cat and a room full of fish tanks. They were lake fish, I think, monochrome and meaty. Everything in her house was steel-blue, best as I recall...

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