Being one, comes and goes.

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Late June, early morning. Across the marsh beyond the forest wall heavy machinery grinds down birdsong. Just far enough away. Diesel-driven slam boom scrape and crush of steel blade, chain and tread.

We are in this together. “They are destroying us.”

Tumbling from a hanging clay pot, the wave pansy, “We do not even exist in the way that you think.”

Being one, comes and goes.

Salutation to the Sun

Upstairs window bottom left
sharp-shinned hawk chasing down a mourning dove.

Cobra. Dog. Mountain.

Forward bend lunge. I want my sketches to be like finished work, but have never been much good at sketching. I photograph animal tracks. Blue shadows. Wingtips pressed into snow. Chaos of dove down and feathers. Some blood.

Does self wear out like muscle and bone? Does it turn white and thin like hair.

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