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Song of a Spadefoot Toad
by Sarah Lindsay
WE STAND by the patch of grass marked his. But he is no longer subject to the whims of this bewildering sphere, with its sound waves, cancers, specific gravity, spring, where we still live, where ostrich chicks before hatching sing through the eggshell, where filarial worms in bloodstream darkness know when it’s night, and drift to the skin of their host, so mosquitoes will drink them and bear them away. | |

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