How long has it been
since you sat with your back against a tree,
and looked up at the dark, straying rivers
in the sky?
How long has it been
since you knelt at a streamside,
and listened to the soft water
sing of mountain snow,
of old times and canyons walls,
and the kind, red belly of the Earth?
How long has it been
since you felt the wind between stars,
and traced your own pictures there,
faint but warm in the light,
and held each star
one by one,
solid in your animal gaze?
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