Sunday, June 20, 2010

They come singly


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They come singly, the little streams,
Out of their solitude.  They bear
In their rough fall a spate of gleams
That glance and dance in morning air.
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They com singly, and coming go
Ever downward toward the river
Into whose dark abiding flow
They come, now quieted, together.
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In dark they mingle and are made
At one with light in highest flood
Embodied and inhabited,
The budded branch as red as blood.
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~ Wendell Berry 
(Given)
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