strange weathers:  always changing
never still - waters pour in rills
down the road, the day is dark
and the sky glowers; then the
scorching sun pours down, too
burn to bear, and the earth
exhales it water and we cannot
breathe the saturated air;
then a cool and breezy day,
sun veiled, the mountain purple
over there, birds loud.

A little vole was dead on the
pavement yesterday, its tiny
brown body and long snout,
little feet, just lay there its
wee day done; and a lady
chaffinch one day dropped
herself before our shed, we
found her dead, so small and

It is hard to be glad in the
rough grind of the road and the
jostle of strange, unkind folk,
bearing all our ills and skill
in our own pack, always
walking on, never looking back -
in the trial and strife we
forget how brief our sojourn is,
forget to look up and see the 

sun and sky, enduring weather
in our face, weather beating
on our limbs as we trudge
by.  And memory, and heart,
those fragile hurting things -
how do we live at all
here, in this most hostile
place, our exiled race.

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