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A memory of home

By Penny Harter / November 28, 1986



The fir trees on the ridge moan in the wind as early darkness luminous with stars rolls across the winter sky following the sun which has already set behind more distant hills. We sleep far from that mountain of shadows and branches whose music echoes in our breath, washes our ribs with a persistent undertow. We sleep in houses that have not grown as carefully as fir trees, and we have forgotten the sky. Yet, tonight the moon is full, rivaling the lights we've strung across the world. A cold wind blows the smoke apart. Feel how it is on the ridge in the humming boughs of the fir trees behind our breastbones where little animals like our hearts breathe together in nests of old leaves and needles.

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