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The Pine Whisk
A streambed
Winds between their solid trunks.
How could they be the same
as deertail fly-whisks?
To sit
Among them,
They're always dripping
Azure shade, and when we talk,
Give sudden birth to breezes. Their shoulders
Fall beyond the lonely lamplight.
Noises chill inside
The silent room.
Is there anyone
Who realizes this thought?
The rocks in the woods,
clustered together.
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