in the vale
there is a red tree
by
a small steeple
out
on fringes
of
a mountain valley
some sort of brilliance is set up as season folds
out there
is space between there have always
been gaps enough for us to fill with our
bodies
to place an
offering in the round plate of the world
mule
deer looks up
between
bits of grass
notes
the last time he
had to run

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