Sometimes in late summer I won’t
touch anything, not the flowers, not the blackberries brimming
in the thickets; I won’t drink from the pond; I
won’t name the birds or the trees; I won’t whisper
my own name. One morning the fox came down the hill, glittering
and confident, and didn’t see me—and I thought:
so this is the world. I’m not in it. It is
beautiful.
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