Caves, the wind blows through most nights. Ancient, indelible pathways through layers of strata, debris and detritus, deposits of sand and of bone, white rock struck by midday sun. Great Earth, great lopsided, whirling mother, to you I am speaking to you with your sister the moon, great shifters of tides and of seasons. These years are yours for the keeping, the holding and longing. To you they return every autumn and not to the sky. Yours alone are the circling seasons. So why should they ask me, and what can I say? I could drift like a newborn river, meandering Alpine meadows or carving out limestone bluffs from beneath a tree. I might flash over granite or gold, wash out the long arm of the spit to the source of all rivers, the mouth of all rivers,the slow swinging ocean,the salt water sea.
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