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The Quieting

Day's harried events go tunneling into pinwheel sleep, while part of me stands separate as larksong recalled from a listening hill, giving myself (not easily) first to the balm of rippling birdnotes, then to the healing silence of sunlight in flowers, quieting my inner rhythms almost to the peace that lives in trees. Very slowly I let go the rest - the burden of tedium, the overload; I give up threading the camels of my mind through the needle of an episode.