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From among the gray-white headstones a thin string dances. Straining, skyward, straining. Direct line, from the hands of a small boy visiting his ancestors to the tail of a happy green kite, weaving to and fro above the treetops, straining, straining, aching for liberation.

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© 2002-8 Mark Phillips. All rights reserved.
This writing is fiction. Please don't confuse it with reality.
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