This strip of wilderness is all
thrums. Its sacred hem is the city's streets, the mind that designed them
is populated by gods.

The same mind whose insatiable greed trashes the planet, perceives what it doesn't recognize as a threat, honoring its dead while one tone is a low sustained fundamental

pitch, similar to the drone of a bagpipe. The second  is a series of flutelike harmonics, which resonate high above the drone and may be musically exploiting its living.

This same mind is capable of unselfish acts of heroism, deep spirituality, and making of works of indescribable beauty, none of which are "economically rational."

Crossing the creek, the wooden bridge disappears. I am sitting on a bench, drawing Skamania, the Owl. A bird flies over and shits on my pad. "What else," I ask, "with these eyes"?

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