Something of the pounding surf. Something of the quiet sea. Something of the rising sun, of the blaze upon the water, the rising mists recalled under the ancient beams, across the clambering stones and mossy cliffs. Something of the wounded sparrow, who remembers flight in the thin cold air. A tinge of the night sky. Breaths of starlight, quiet, hushed stars lapping at my feet in cold water.

John Wade Long III, 1991
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