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Petit 29

and spirals round their rings before bursting into saturated light. There is lake-black and mud-brown a loon-shape brings up from the river bed

like primordial clay; red dots to raise from drums of resonating bark. There are greys to draw down from the clouds like masks for the tree-gods’ faces,

lightning to cast over their crowns. The way they stir just before a storm, the crack that opens in the sky – my first view of the thunder woods in their electric groves.

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