by Seth Jani
In the deserts of mid-July I occasionally found a light, cold and crystalized, hidden away from the world in the summer caves. I would collect it on my fingers, letting the sweetness flow like warm blood or patient nectar down the landscape of my chin. I didn’t know what gold sentinels had brought it into the darkness, what secret patterns nature had built to arrange such abundance. I simply shared in the benediction of those blessed laborers, never for an instant imagining that one day those combs would be empty, and the Northeast forest quiet as a boat of arriving refugees.
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