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  • As the sun muscles up and over Bread Loaf Mountain, you stand at the window, camera dangling from your hand, embracing it all from your warm sunny spot--the vast, unfathomable beauty of blue against white, dappling of songbirds, shake of cedars spilling snow, garden muffled and still, sun dazzling the skin of birches-- the window seems only a faint and insignificant scrim, a transparence that doesn't separate you, not really.

    But then there, not twenty feet from you, a teacher or a talisman, it matters not. What matters is that it has been there all along, perched on a garden stake. What matters is how it stares, takes your measure, you and the leafy fig tree between you and the window, you as you stand there sleepy naked. Even as you lift your camera to take one quick shot, it takes in your soft ease, your silly machine and your selfish preoccupations and all that separates you from it, and shows them to you before with a single shrug of wide wings, it melts into the woods.

    This is what you see:
    You are here, not there.
    You look out of windows more than in.

    You fool yourself.
    Even out here on these acres and acres of scrub farmland returning to the wild where you walk among the bobcat, the coyote, the hawk.
    Even here.
    Even you.
    Especially you.
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