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trying somehow
to put together a set of words to describe
the sensations
of floating

the sounds of tree, of water
and of hand and paddle

the sweet flow of movement
never quite straight
never quite random

a sense of direction
and a path guided by curiosity

(a what if, a where, where-from, where-to)

just looking at the treeline and asking
where is this sound coming from?

(a distant hope of seeing a beaver
knowing that this is beaver territory

or a hopeless attempt at seeing black grouse
performing their mating rituals in the evening)

finding it hard to put into words
the smallest of things
the beauties that
might not even be worth making into a poem
but which make living such a worthwile thing

being here
in the fragile sounds
of an almost silence
(but never quite).

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