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  • An owl is crouched in a shallow den.
    Eyes wide, but nowhere to go.
    Head turns--left and then down, left and then down.
    And the wings want to open, but again, there is nowhere to go.

    Above, just a few inches above, is a fairway.
    And I am taking practice swings with an iron.
    I glance it through the short grass, finish with the club high.
    Then I do it all again.
    A rehearsal.

    This is something you cannot make happen.
    There is no forgiveness, but it is about letting go.
    This is about soft hands and something called the release.
    This is something you can only set the conditions for, and then allow.

    I listen to the sounds in the air, in the woods, in the pond.
    I remind myself to listen to them. To breath with them.
    I inhale. I exhale.

    The club is set. I focus on the front of the ball, my legs are quiet,
    I start back, and then, when I reach the top of the backswing,
    I just disappear.

    I come back to a sweet, soft, click.
    That ball with great horns has taken flight.

    And for that moment, there are no thoughts of fingerprints.
    No thoughts of who has done what to whom.

    It travels long and high, wings open. Effortless.

    I begin to think I am learning something, as I simply watch.

    With grass under my feet.
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