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small rocks

There is a melting iron track that meets with small rocks and grasses along a familiar way. The metal bird cries out beneath the squeaking lorikeets; they have divided up the tree in high density competition for nectar. A wooden board is the thing that vibrates near and holds thoughts far. It is strange how many attractors and repellents come at me when sitting at this desk. And my back hurts from a silly tumble I took on Sunday — imagining the air was water and I dove through it!

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