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  • As I moved handfulls of worms from one bin to another, tamping their bodies and the dirt in which they wriggled over the mixture of sawdust, horse shit, and kitchen scraps, helping them to feel more at home in the silly blue plastic bin I made them work in, so that I will be able to shovel out their handiwork in a week or two and use it to enrich our garden...I thanked them in my mind, not in words but in a feeling I held inside my body.

    Later, I looked up, as I stood, quiet, centering, waiting to be ready to do the chi gung exercises I had neglected [again] for far too long, and saw a black crow swing towards me on a nice gust of wind, circle right over my head, dip back the way she had come, and then fly off after two other birds I noticed glancingly as the one who blessed me with a direct flight overhead had captured all my attention: she's flying over me, no one else, I'm receiving a special gift from this wild bird...and again remind myself that that's a an egocentric fantasy notion, there is nothing special in the random coincidence that that bird happened to pass over me at the moment that I looked up to see it.

    And yet, it was me that saw it, and noted its flight, and gave her a sex in the paragraph above, instead of using the objective observer's neutered phrasing into which I had slipped by the end of the paragraph: the skeptic overcomes the romantic, I return to the real world from the fantasy that my story is all about me. And yet what else can it be?
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