A falling frond becomes a bird...

A falling frond becomes a bird that takes flight. And I am that bird, above the city in which I lived. Rising, I see the Venice streets. The beach, the pier, the Pacific. The places I played, never thinking any of it would ever be anything but there for me.

Everything communicates: trees, corn, crows...

One day we'll discover how the rock speaks to the soil while still insisting in our own voice of our superiority.

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A falling frond becomes a bird
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