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Stingray

In its firmament of gray-green sea where the light of a blue moon glints on the unhinging

pincers of feasting crabs, sparking the darkness like distant stars, it flaps its rubbery wings,

glides to the seabed, flutters, and blends its curved edges with the sand. It lies

in the same spot where it lay a year before when a beachcomber wandered barefoot in the surf,

forgot to shuffle his feet, and stepped clumsily on its flawlessly camouflaged wing, taking deep into his shin bone,

shot by its whiplike tail, its sharp, barbed dorsal spine it took two nurses, a doctor, and a scalpel to dig out.

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