Counting Falling Stars in Navajo Canyon

When the river interrupts, we listen. The ripples begin to sing and we lose our place, have to start all over again. The moon rises. Our eyes strain, casting huge nets to seine the sky. Between flares we tell each other stories of our lives like never before. It is good to be out in the open, good to talk to a friend and to listen. We lie awake a long time, give up at last and fall asleep at twenty-three.

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