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59 Abundance A moment longer and it’s hardly night, barn doors slightly open in the fallen snow. Two mares, roan and sorrel, shuffle dark, but other stalls bloom with vacancy, dried alfalfa, timothy. Weren’t there stars, a few, like tiny lights that monitor screens in empty newsrooms, keyboard, telephone? Score for strings and clarinet: horse-hair, blackwood, fire. And indeed the small lights go about their work unseen. Words that left the Dalai Lama hours ago, not arrived except in filaments, like hay that isn’t glowing—suffering and joy— now have kept their rounds. The still-famous “moment of silence” advances into dawn and here, an instant, fills the yard, the shed, the t.v.’s off and pale blue cataract before light cracks out from scarlet night. One second: it seems as if there’s nothing lived or died. But then it’s just the sun, again blood-red, if, as some blood, once again, the blood of life. ...

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