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Poem: The Isle
The sun sets, and dusk shines best only in the spot
where I sit with my back against the alpine tree,
and you can see the marks and crevices
where Norse gods hid voracious secrets before absconding.
Days spent mostly among the ferns and traipsing through the brush,
watching the sun rise and set in the moors,
or picking tiny leaves off the rue.
I can count the dozens of kinds of orchids,
and my younger sister can catch salmon and trout
with her bare hands. She tells me winter will be
especially agitated this year, bitter. That it will drive us
all away. I don’t believe her because
even the most unyielding stags return in the spring
to gnaw on the lichen and the brush, fawns following
in a languid route behind them.

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