| Presence Up in the woods, past the moors, they're circling up their circle, dancing on clogged feet, stomping their stomp calling on the old gods, or something older than God. Time again to worship in the mists. Overhead, winds whistle. Below and all around comes Presence, like the lowest of shofars unhurriedly permeating the barren waste and the lush timeberland the ennui and the fervent till all is awash in re-awakening. PamEhli/2001 |
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| Since 2-17-03 |