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  • For a moment, I don't understand why we've stopped here,
    in the middle of the woods, in a clearing large enough for a sliver of light to burst through and allow the understory to receive nutrients and water. I think "that's it." You're just admiring the light.
    But "that's" never "it", with you. There is always something deeper there. Always another thing I've missed.
    I search the landscape. Rain passed through these parts about an hour ago, and the sun has turned the remaining water into a cloud that lightly, quietly rests on top of the soft underbelly of the forest.
    You say nothing, as usual in these situations.
    My thoughts become silent and the songs of birds and small insects begin to take their place.
    I can feel the warmth of the CO2 being given off by the tulip poplars, and the light breeze of an early summer rain dances across my cheeks.
    Finally, my gaze is drawn downward and your reasoning becomes clear. As it usually does 10 minutes after you've moved to the next thing.
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