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35 M O U N T TO B Y, S P R I N G T H AW The trickle of melting ice catches in the basin beneath the culvert, flows ledge to ledge, then descends the stony bed worn between the banks of the gorge. Runoff flashes along the shoot of the frozen falls— the thaw of the brook pausing across a long table of snow-encrusted rock before it tumbles over the rim of another. The sluice slides down the doglegs of ice, spills ribbons of water that plunge through the beams of sunlight illuminating each pool, and where, mid-mountain, I stop to watch the rippling water shadows silver the mossy cliffs. ...

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