In the bend of the river the cold damp marsh Steams the dawn of middle autumn days. The first frost cracks beneath our leathered feet As we pull the seasoned tubers from the earth. Our hands are warmed as we peel away The withered fronds, break away the wiry roots And toss the winter food into baskets on our backs. We've returned, and we'll return, ever and again, To the thin towns, the fragile frames, In the breast of the hills, At the edge of the mountain, Speechless.

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