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Poets

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They are the ones walking through the furrows watching for new meanings to emerge. Like small children they are striving to put-utterance-to. Words appear like bits of thread and string gathered by a bird, the mind of a bird. Pieces of sky and blue cloth. Tiny chunks of mountains stick to their walking-boots. They are the ones who collect images like pebbles and seeds in their pockets - then plant them, or thread them, or toss them into the air to fly. Or just set them down carefully on the back porch and listen to them sing.


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