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Landscape XII

I can't tell where the landscape ends and you begin. you have a painterly eye for things hot and dry for scorched tones and matt surfaces blending deep down somewhere in the very mind of the canyon. And you have Indians' love for hard planes stained chalk dust colors smeared rose pinks and sands of the desert's brimming heart, and your hands strong, trembling, love this land. Your endless smile caresses it. Those eyes move tenderly across this horizon with so much love of it that tears freeze bright in the sun and your face is lit with the same golden light as the mighty canyon walls. Any sparrow is safe with you.

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