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Words in the Fog

Alone I awake in the early Fall.

Winds whisper fables and folk tales tall. 

The woodlands speak, 

The waters sing, 

And magic peaks behind mundane things.

Slumbering summer and restless winter,

Snapping and crackling of dying embers,

Chilled morns still half a dream.

Shifting light where not as it seems.

A waking hour, an enchanted hour,

Where one might catch glimpses

Of ghosts in the steam.

Gales above

And songs below,

From east I come

And west I go.

Find me on those paths we know.

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