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Sometimes in the open you look up
where birds go by, or just nothing,
and wait.
A dim feeling comes you were like this once, there was air, and quiet; it was by a lake, or maybe a river you were alert as an otter and were suddenly born like the evening star into wide still worlds like this one you have found again, for a moment, in the open.
2 Something is being told in the woods: aisles of shadow lead away; a branch waves; a pencil of sunlight slowly travels its path.
A withheld presence almost speaks, but then retreats, rustles a patch of brush.
You can feel the centuries ripple generations of wandering, discovering, being lost and found, eating, dying, being born.
A walk through the forest strokes your fur, the fur you no longer have.
And your gaze down a forest aisle is a strange, long plunge, dark eyes looking for home.
For delicious minutes you can feel your whiskers wider than your mind, away out over everything.

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Analysis and Comments on Atavism

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