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ovenbird
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On the rock steps rising from the sea_to_sky highway, a haunt of jack-o'-lanterns turn their crow pecked eyes to the sky. They drink November mist while mould fills the cavities in their crooked teeth. They've woken from a sugared dream to find winter licking at the mountain. There is little left to do, in the mud of their final days, but collapse into their own sagging mouths at the point where entrails and ecstasy meet.
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251114
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