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by James Navé

Morning light crossed the room. I woke. I thought of you
sun bathing beside a mountain stream. The warm afternoon
up Highway 9, where the path veered left down to the rocky
shore, was like any other. A man appeared at the edge
of the forest. He wore a Confederate flag on his baseball cap.
You noticed two rainbow trout in the clear pool under the laurel.
The day was full of color. The man yelled, then disappeared
into the underbrush; his mouth was a cave with a body in it.
You stood. You were warm like the afternoon. Your thoughts turned
to wild horses on the open range running at full speed, hooves
galloping across the acreage in a flying circus of you becoming
spirit circling above the apogee of your rising and his descent.


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