Not much here.
Not prize or punishment,
just pieces of bone
stripped of feather,
grey, cold boulders
arranged in circles
and exquisite fear;
see how its smoky
colorless face turns
back to count
its victims.
Somewhere on
a bleached, naked
ridge
a primitive screech,
a flinging out and up,
far as it could reach
into nothingness
and flickering.
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