where the writers are
One man's trash is another's treasure

Deep in this underground shop stands a 7-foot-tall brontosaurus made mostly of chicken wire.  Off to one side two iron beds with a past reveal worn coats of red paint. On a reclaimed wood table sits an enormous birdcage with no feathered creature in sight. I looked around just in case because the notion that an avian of extreme proportions might be perched somewhere in the darkened corners left me feeling all Tippi Hedren.

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