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From this window
looking out at a string of hills
necklacing the horizon, distant
and untouchable, painted there
by centuries unapproachable.

Separate from them but loosely bound
I open up the door and venture out.
Although the wagon wobbles from its miles
I have become one with those hills,
an extension of the limbs of oak and ash;

more than a reflection on the pond,
I am the water rippled

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