One writes one does. Again. One insists on it. Is this it? What one writes?
Or perhaps what writing. That which witnesses briefly the sun. The neighbor's cow bellowing at dawn. Metaphors? Art anyway.
Of which one is a part. Apart? Who wants to know? The pond was roughly circular, the streams of mist shapeless. Keep going.
What is healing but the removal of that which obstructs knowing? A few raindrops, a cup of coffee. One walks that way. Listening? As on the trail this morning I helped you with your shoes and remembered again how to kneel.
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