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Where creek is parted by a hasty island, with nothing to eat but mushrooms that leave a metallic taste, I found a circle scored in the mud.

I could thrive on questions by shape of things. But these stones are stoic, refusing to reply, they cast memories other than themselves.

Nature's a great poet, if you're disillusioned and drunk, Lew Welch appeared to say when I meet him on the path a few years from now.


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