A Log There is a log.Quiet in the woods.Life on it, within it, all around it. But we step over iton our way elsewhere. We don't even thinkabout being that log. We want to be bright lights.Stars. In the sky.Another sun. Or, at least, an eagle.Flying. Not at rest. Instead of that logwe try to pull ourselvessheer force of willinto the sky. We need it.Of course. That log. "In memory of William Stafford"
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