Autumn hills, Windby Wendy McVicker |
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In my dreams we enter the woods, you slip between tall trees (think, pillars of stone in the old cathedrals) leaves on the ground so thick we are ankle–deep in gold. These things whisper: hair–thin branches in the trees' high crowns, the leaves as we pass, a black bird's wings — blood surging in my ears as we climb to that place where the sky opens up–no longer a mesh of branches enclosing darkness but limitless white uninscribed snow a plain of moonlight a clearing, and no one there | |
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