Wild preserve between the straight seams of city streets. Plants creep down to the creek's banks, with-drawing its assets. Enthroned on a rock, a man breathes the "lapis-haunted air," jotting notes in red ink. On the opposite shore, a pale woman bathes her feet, water caressing their ten small white stones.

    Tall trees don't look down.
   Rapiers circle without interest.
   Deep into their own visions,
   mushrooms don't seem to notice.

Almost hidden by the side of the trail, an Elder sat under a tree. "I saw two Blue Herons the other day, and a Peregrine Falcon. I thought it was a hawk, but it was a falcon!" he said. "A few months ago," I replied, "an owl was hunting in broad daylight." "Yeah. I saw him too, sitting on a branch pruning himself like he owned the place." "He was almost invisible," I continued. "People were standing around pointing him out. Then he glided upstream, so silent. I haven't seen him since." "Me neither. Well, it's time to get these old bones moving," and he began to ascend the hilly trail.

 

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