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And walking in the woods I hear your tread
behind me in the leaves,
while far out ahead,
like skittish grouse in brushy coves,
you're always whirring
out of hearing.

In underwater windrows, drifted streaks
of last year's fallen leaves,
you are the trout that strikes
and quickly moves.
I see only rings

from Dialogue With a Dead Man, 1974 ©

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