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There is life in the brush under the deadwood


Waiting to come out To stretch and yawn with arms wide open

We step along a trail of scattered logs picking our way through

I’m not afraid of the dark The place beyond the headlights

The sinkholes and sounds of the night The crying

I have lost my voice along this rock-strewn road

following the mountains and not the stream Dodging the ruts and the washouts

Reaching upward when all I want is down

deep in the humming of this earth Hiding and waiting

I sigh

and I begin again


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