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So slow drawn bows on low pitch strings, until some higher notes allowed, when then brief brighter voice slips in; claimed harmony on drifting seas, slight swelling waves on tidal rise, but sifting back to heaving weight. The woodland walk is needled pine, strong resin seeping, mountain cat, guts creep below branch overhang, until tight breakthrough, upper left; a lighter, redwood squirrel glance, till back from glade, dark forest bark. Those grimmer days, no glimmer sight, for other’s height, the cast down worse; small offers made, of sapling rise, such fight against the undergrowth, a near call, doe, red dappled kite, still hover fly but swoop below; My right of winter in the spring, a somber autumn, fall not stayed, the carpet underlay called gold, but old and drying, vein decay. It may be tilth, stealth later hope, yet first the worms in wasteland rot. Is this reflective, for the couch? To note for prayerful alter, church? Or wallow save for lighter staves, missed rain for promised bow above? What motif in this MS work - from leit to shade, wight guiding hand?

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