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35 The Gnostic Woman Takes a Hike I am the word whose appearance is multiple. I am the utterance of my name. —The Thunder, Perfect Mind Under the clattering cottonwood leaves she lifts and sets a pale blue egg between the pads of her forefinger and thumb, up to the glow of a shifting camp lantern. It exposes a shadow-life, some possibility left for being. What if she were to fortify the nest with a compress of wet seeds and fast food napkins? Wasn’t it a dangerous wind come over us all? Someone’s big idea—to go with it— endorsing The Fall, an iron roar throwing millions of lights into the river’s gorge? Wasn’t it prescient to dream of riding a horse in the middle of it with perfect control, a polished zigzag between thorny posts, and nothing at all? Although solace could be the open sky, it’s seeing clearly into earth’s summer meadow that she knows what matters is what she embodies. She is Isis rising up from the wheat’s magnetic dais. She will keep the needful water, and the long stroke of I. ...

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