You, of course, are the shape of the container that holds your stories. But, what are you? Where is there room in you for all the stories you have collected, have been given throughout your life?
Thirty years ago, a beloved brought me this nest from the woods near Alfred, N.Y. The besieged forest off the dirt road near where I used to live gave me the feathers.
No instructions except for this: Start writing and we’ll see what emerges from you.
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