there is no following
where this path might lead,
no heedings of warnings or calls,
there is only this earth
soft worn between undergrowth,
thorn snarled and aching
with the beauty of small leaves
that touch the light
just out of reach.
and when we break
to this beauty, as break we must.
let it be this bird
sentinel on a tall tree
that sings us whole
to the evening.
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