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28 Manzanita On the third day in the woods, I empty—fill with cool mountain air breathed from the pines. You work to bank a fire. You have cut yourself on a tree; some thirst is slaked. We have no tablecloth. We split apples on the scarred wood. Smoke flows into folds. Our girl pretends to eat. She lifts invisible morsels from the palm of her hand, then sucks her fingers, mmm. When I ask what she’s eating, she always says eggs. There’s a kind of power that’s not power over others. It comes from a weave of the visible and not and appears sometimes as a dignity, easy to misunderstand. I was once a daughter of the earth. And once one who raped and colonized the daughters of the earth. It is not time that is the great teacher but the way we understand time. At least now I think our stories can begin to turn back on themselves. ...

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