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To Let Go of the Hand of The Dying

On the Difference Between Quiet and Silence

Nights come more easily now. See how in the last hour before darkness, the withering sun outlines everything in gold, an aureate amber dripping from leaves and trash as though they are both sharing in the same dream. A crow calls incessantly from the tree outside my California bedroom, its voice somehow both high pitched and gravelly. I find myself thinking about what it wants, maybe nothing more than the same thing we all want: to be heard.