As you watch, the trunk of the oak is split sideways, the bark's brown gashed and glistening; along the stream's horizon a log drifts, turning. There is a light and yet tenacious covering that holds the soil, that surfaces as separate strands of green, but underneath is inextricable. (Scents of simples, and the sweetness of stone-fruits, citrus, vines.) The breast is swollen, the children awaited.
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