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The Clay MAG
I hold the clay in my hands
It is warm, warmer than my hands.
Its feelings seep out.
I can feel fur
and paws
and tiny
shiny claws
and teeth
But mostly mischief.
A tiny heart beats rapidly
It struggles to get free
I mold as fast as I can,
before I lose the chipmunk's soul
Rich red, black and white streaks, claws, teeth.
The mischief disappears into a hole
to be hardened by fire.
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