Red bones, golden bones, reduced bones. Bones spark. Gray shards gravel out voice from fire. In the palm light grains shift, part of the hand again. Watching my father dance by water's edge, I wonder what primitive ceremony rules.
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We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet