by Nan Jones Bless her heart. She was a haggard little thing. Feathers askew, falling out, barely hanging on. Molting? Maybe. I’m not sure. What I am sure of is how she spoke to me
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by Nan Jones Bless her heart. She was a haggard little thing. Feathers askew, falling out, barely hanging on. Molting? Maybe. I’m not sure. What I am sure of is how she spoke to me
Read more