Something You Should Know

They bring racing pigeons from everywhere and set them loose at timed intervals from Little America, out in Wyoming; every bird circles high, sets a course, and banks away toward its right place, the course for home. I've watched them come, swift in the evening, wings flashing in the last of the sun, diving steeply down from the sky into some lone ranch in the junipers lost to the world but centered for that pigeon's life, the soul's direction sure. Like yours. Like mine.

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