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98 Raking Leaves with the Gods in July For฀a฀month,฀there฀has฀been฀no฀rain. Scattered฀over฀the฀pea฀stone฀paths that฀lead฀us฀through฀the฀shade of฀our฀gardens,฀beech฀and฀birch, oak,฀ash,฀and฀even฀larch฀leaves lie,฀their฀ends฀dry฀and฀curling toward฀their฀veins.฀I฀rake฀and make฀believe฀I฀am฀a฀Zen-traveled monk฀smoothing฀the฀surface,฀quieting the฀loss฀into฀a฀calm฀within฀a฀heart’s usual฀storm,฀the฀tines’฀slow฀scrape assuming฀silence฀among฀the฀stones. In฀the฀branches฀birds฀sing.฀The฀heat is฀my฀Master฀saying,฀Slow,฀slow. Move฀to฀the฀edge.฀The฀lack฀of฀rain says,฀Patience.฀The฀gods฀say, What฀is฀there฀to฀do?฀This,฀I฀say. And?฀they฀say.฀And฀this.฀They 99 stand฀their฀rakes฀against฀a฀tree, gather฀in฀the฀Adirondack฀chairs฀along the฀narrowing฀stream.฀But฀there฀is฀also this,฀I฀say,฀nodding฀toward฀the฀water. ...

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