It would have had to have been strangely dark for his feet to have missed this path. It wound up, crossing and recrossing the stream. Its steps kept open by the odd fisherman after crayfish, the impotent men going to bathe in the pool, and a few other travelers. And his hand reached out of itself for the branch that would help him over a deep place, a branch polished by many hands. Warm air sighing through the pines.
— Jun 11, 2017 09:18AM
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