my dog has turned our property into a graveyard:
from the groundhog family she massacred one by one; to the rabbit with her unlucky feet; to the stray cat who aimlessly wandered onto the wrong side of the fence;
each hand buried by shovel into the overturned ground behind our home.
to this day, old village churches are surrounded by gravestones from the time of lanterns and horse-drawn carriages.
"the best this life has to offer is to die peacefully in your sleep", they say.
which probably explains this wounded world more than anything else.
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