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59 QUEST FOR BEGINNING The cold front chills me, so I believe this rumor of pines in wind, distancing the thought of beginning—and of the starsimulacrum I will see, if evening enlightens my path but dims the sky. Nearer the river, I walk through a rain of color. Too bright yet for a sharp-tipped light. I wait beside sliding water, as the beech grove uses up day with its yellow. Not much longer. Wind moans the limb-vaulted ceiling like cathedral-conversation with the dead. Now. Now that this day is fading, clouds part. A beech ignites like a lantern-mantle. Is it glow from below, or one stray ray, descending? Light leaks away from near air. Higher, atmosphere catches the sunlight. When enough of the thickening brightness passes, I’ll see through a clearer night— and mark the point, infinitely acute, like the spacetime start. ...

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