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Of Woods and Words

There are days my wings are clipped and my tethers keep me close to home. On these days I stand longingly at the window looking at the patches of urban woods that sit astride the ridge surrounding the city. I know these woods well and can picture their imperfect, encroached-upon understories, their tangles of Himalayan blackberries, the way utility lines run like scars across their foreheads. On days inside these imperfections mean nothing to me. Rather, I long to be immersed in their unique wildness, the nearby nature that they offer. On these days, cut off from the natural world, looking, I retreat to language, creating the forest around me through the symbolism of runes. From this confined, detached place I become naiad, spirit of water, free to flow through my own interior forest, my private sylvan space. And I am free.

A mountain in the dusk


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