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Entering the copse from the Northwest, we find our way through a tangled mess of thickets and briers. Brambles tossed about like kelp on a shore line. The men make slow time with their march, some of them tired from the day’s journey, others bewildered by the landscape.
The sound of moving water from melted snows enlivens our spirit. Purple mountain tops are revealed behind towering tree canopies.
The smell of pine needles and leaf mold fills the autumnal air.
An opening in the trees invites repast. We unpack and prepare to encamp for the evening. The daytime orb moves through the clockwork dome.
The Sun Falls From the Sky. A great splash is heard. A crack in the dome from whence the sun once shined threatens to grow larger.
A viscous lavender enfolding the dome begins to rain down. The ethereal amniotic sac of birthing fluid.
A great cleansing begins.
The tiniest mustard seed.
The finest fruit.
A new garden prepared.