Deep rivers are the people of thought.

Voice streams pass overhead,

rippling the vision, until the cause

settles down.

The growth of me, my trees and the

ground of my past spreads branches over

my roots, shading a slow path.

I am a shadow. A gray imprint on

a landscape of color.

A bridge from your shadow found

the hidden ground covering me.

The basket tips.

The peaches have turned.

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