It was beautiful and she could see four square feet of it. And that was enough, she thought. Brilliant patches of blue through the green, fluttering in a breeze she couldn’t hear. Sunlight laying on her like a shifting quilt, pushing the shadows of the silent leaves back and forth. The wrung sinews of the oak with fresh scars of branches trimmed in February. There was a thickness in her throat. Inside her head, she heard the song of a bird she could not name and the drip drip-drip of a faucet into the drain of a clawfoot tub.



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