During the Covid-19 pandemic, I witnessed several processes of shedding: on a local webcam, where baby falcons, still mostly gray and fluffy, were growing individual feathers on the very tips of their wings, like fingers; on an Oakland hillside, where I found a snakeskin, its owner having disappeared into the brambles; on my desk in my apartment, where the leading edge of a plant stem peeled itself back to allow a new section to stretch toward the window. There was something difficult and self-defying about these processes of shedding, I thought. And this quality was also mine to claim, given
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