Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?
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