And shedding needles
As our bed spread
Out and down
The mountain,
Floods savory rushing
Into the valleys
Of our eyes.
Well-armed at nature's
Passive glance
That makes the bear
With foreign brown eyes,
Run and the hunter
Will never be spared.
You are far
And far is sacred
On the edge of rolling hills,
Towering over with
Arms that close
On the bay.
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