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By Loch Arrow

Reed beds in the misty morning water,
islanded trees still in their full-leaved silhouette
and something in us that knows this silence
that is only made of natural sound…
birds flying from the lane, cows at the grass,

something in us knows wherever we are
in the hushing that comes over us
that is the mist and brightness in our eyes,
now the wind breathes in the trees, the light is rising,
and the curlew calling below is not a mobile phone;

something in us knows, created as we are,
that only finds peace when it returns
to the same substance in our eyes and ears,
that is nameless, numinous, and eternally precise

as the flight of an arrow to its seeing mark <
awake, alive: and in our heart of hearts.

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