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Living on a hill, rain water would run
down, she’d follow its path to the gutter,

moon moths playing in her hair, a vixen
at her heels, to watch it vanish under

the street. Underground water works this way.
In the desert it has no other choice.

As a child she was taught fencing, gunplay,
and wit, verbal repartee. When the voice

from the chip implanted in her skull spoke
she would obey. The fox was always nice,

the moths didn’t scare her. She liked watching
the rain fall in the street, letting it soak

into her, making the rain smell like spice
and the underground vast and bellowing.