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Proud Flesh and the Scars of Priesthood

It’s late afternoon. Canted light sweeps across a rolling plain bunched with junipers. Their branches, like the arms and shoulders of swimmers, stroke against waves of scented wind, the whoosh and warp of the sound as soft as chant inside a chapel. We pull up our horses and gaze across the cedar sea. In the distance, Permian cliffs, smooth and s...

05 02 2019

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