We are walking in a wood. To our left I see paper in the process of dissolving in a pool of water. You are wearing a long, beautiful skirt, that I haven't seen you in before, which occasionally swishes against the clumps of newly fallen leaves. Above, the wind replies. Nearby, to our right, but out of sight, water burbles by, though the ground we walk on is gradientless. Birds chatter music all around, enjoyably consuming lingering summer insects. There are no further away sounds. We have walked like this for years, extensive explorers. Stronger. Interlinked. A twig snaps. You turn to me with a well-known, warm, calm smile. Let's keep going.
The call of the wall, periodical, methodical ascent with intent. Route schematic; left-foot, right-hand, right-foot, left-hand, leap and swing, match and detach and on to the next. Choosing, falling, grooving and improving. Next day, wrists of clay, crumbled and stiffened, once agile, now fragile to any of the many daily demands on the hands. The habit was leaving on a wind of healing, fraught and caught and taken away, to be perennially a memory, a delight consumed by the violent bite of history.
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