S T A Y . . .

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The place was wild, high on a ridge.
A glacial shift had thrust rock high.
Around me were ferns, fir, sphagnum. 
Cliffs.
Magical sensations of ancient people,
   sheltered from weather, between 
   the crag's edge and a gentle sag of land.
Wild water flowed from an opening in the ground.
Sedges drank from this.
Deer had visited.
The elder cliffs captured sound and sent it back out,
    amplified, distorted. 
There was an old presence there.  
What feet have trod this place? 
Where did they sleep?
Did the water speak to them and call them close?
My arms went up, as a child to a mother,
    asking to be held, carried. 
This could be home. 
I could stay.
The feeling of living here was so profound,
   it was all I could think about, as I moved along the cliff’s base.
I celebrate this place.

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