Where I want to respond, I insert silence. Speech cannot describe what I see or feel. Sound, maybe, but song makes me restless, prone to pressing forward, to moving toward a later point in the song, in memory, closer to where I am right now, writing this in a fit of restlessness, fast-forwarding toward a future when I can sigh and realize that the waiting is over. For now I walk within shadows, under the green whispering of new-foliaged trees, among the blackbirds flying low.

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