Space #4 As I move through these woods space feels more and more rigid, all other things are stubborn going about the tasks that make them—mouse is combing through grass for bugs, the oak tree is drinking sunlight and breathing deep breaths that float away as clouds.
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Poem #189
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Space #4 As I move through these woods space feels more and more rigid, all other things are stubborn going about the tasks that make them—mouse is combing through grass for bugs, the oak tree is drinking sunlight and breathing deep breaths that float away as clouds.