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This Song Norway's arrow into fall dark sky pine needles pillow my arm which pillows your head which roots against my breast until we settle suckling and nesting on the forest floor. And it starts just at the moment that my milk lets down the soft howling ache of windsong a lonesome caress of sound through waving tree tops. Late September blowing, a fiddler's bow across branchstrings singing of some distant home crooning vowels of ancient lullabies. Blanketed by this ghostly loon chorus together beyond ordinary breath or time, the pulse of your lips against my nipple the rising rushing sound of souls passing, the falling away of words. ...

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