green all year, where I could not imagine drought except as an abstract concept. Awake now, the dream has granted me a grove where ocean meets the rain; persistent, subtle mists, and sprays and spates in sideways walls of wet. I wrap myself in plastic, to no avail, After a while, my face runs with rainy sea, sweat or tears. Today, at the end of my labored swim up the hill,
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first understand that you are a whirlpool of a raging river, a cyclone of an endless sky, a spiral of the code of being. Lie flat on the ground, the solid, still earth So let go.
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