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the wild things, by john kinsella and dorothy...
There were always magpies in the early morning swinging from the clothesline on the edge of the orchard where the ordered world of the farm house ended and the atavistic world began the wild world where we roamed at will stretching the wingspan of a dead hawk between us
not bunched in our flannel petticoats in bedrooms thick with night terrors a sitting room stuffed with horsehair a kitchen...
