On a gloomy afternoon, the stream flows silky clear. Fish dart upstream, between rocks and under the debris of fallen trees.
I approach an entrance to the underworld: the mossy punenda of a pollard trunk turned upside-down, half-petrified, snaky roots grasping air, feeling
Medusa's ancient widely 
recognized symbol of female wisdom was her threatening, ceremonial mask. It has wide unblinking eyes that reflect her immense wisdom. They are all knowing, all seeing eyes that see through us, penetrating our illusions and looking into the abyss of truth. Her mouth is deathly; it looks like a skull. It is devouring of all life, returning us to as if I'm clinging to a world no longer here.

 

 

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