The vines were biding their time, full of life force that did not care about her or how sorry she was

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I am wholly unimportant—just a witness to her shapeshifting, possessed of a voice that can be compelled into song by the land’s unfolding

I watch the lights slip and slur on the headpond and think down, toward the dam, the embankment and the long drop of the spillway where the water rests, whirled and stunned

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