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1.22.01 - 1:43:47 rancho de taos, august I'm alone all day. In the afternoon, thunder. The birds' cries become more numerous, like first drops of rain, and I go outside to look at the mountains. No one knows I do this -- not the man I miss, not the friends who will return this evening. All around their house the sky stitches together loose scraps of the dark. I feel small, and purposeless; even the ant, rust-colored, dragging the torn wing of a dragonfly across my shadow and into the sagebrush, has more to do. I tell my heart to be patient, that joy returns, but it doesn't want to listen. It wants to tell me that the storm comes toward us, heavy with each named grief, and slams all the windows in the empty house.
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