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65 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g l i g h t o n l e a v e s With the light in the tree above Jittery Joe’s I am wondering about energy exchange. The sun gives itself wholly to the tree and us all, but the leaves on this side get additional nighttime attention from artificial light, whose power derives from water falling sixty feet off a dam to turn a turbine. I do not know how any of this works, least of all the chlorophyll, what out of sunlight and earthen minerals and magical moisture makes oak leaves by the bushel basket. Some exchange not unlike this must go on between people. The enlightened ones and the near-to, and the goofy joyful ones and those that dance their ignorance with those that laugh melodious, and others who play like roots in the dirt. The various flavors of lightedness take human forms and compose their waking motions to enjoy the growing conversation. This is a pecan, its double trunk held by a seam in the cement. And of course, it is like us in the midst of constant traffic noise, how we live so fierce and shamed and free, too busy, and lovingly bent over with our nut-bearing gift. ...

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