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That you want to slip deep into the forest. Pine needles like the sharpest animal’s hair, a lake at the end of the trees’ illusion tunnel. That the fish would flip delightedly out of the water’s vast surface. That the cougar and the bear. That the shriek of the American pika, volcanic ash, a yip across the mountains, a calling. That you admit this, a doom rustled to the leafy floor. You are molting, exuviating what was once safe. It is not catastrophic to be free.
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