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there is a woman. at the beginning there is always a woman. say she is me. i see her from my corner. above and beside. she is still, at a table. head bent, reading or writing. her left hand holds the edge of the table. a finger finds the grain and traces it over and over. she likes the wood. in its edge and pattern she feels the life of the tree, ring on ring. it brings to her the rough perfume of sun warmed bark, of sap running wild, of explosions of leaves forced suddenly to dance by a rogue wind. it shows her the moving patterns of leaf shade on brown stony dirt mirroring the dance of clouds over a blue sky.