Moving toward solstice

We have done what we could: walked on these golden leaves let drop by the cycle of time, touched by the gift of sight the purple asters by the road, noted the ragged raven who sits in the old cottonwood, uttering his dark-shadowed gutturals. On this night a full-blown moon rises behind the mountain, its light mixed with wood smoke, tree branch, and restless moving cloud. All of the loved world moves now toward the unfailing crest of time. We have fulfilled the constant pattern; we cannot stay the solstice.

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