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July 13

Each day in the woods I must choose.
The narrow path that climbs the ridge
cool and lacy with leaves and spiderwebs?
Or the open paths bordering the meadow
fragrant with bergamot, alive with birds?
Or yet the one the creek makes in its rocky bed
where I might spy a heron or kingfisher?
Each choice I make, even these small ones,
carries a consequence of some sort.  
Each gives me pause and often I let the dogs
choose.  For which prize might I miss if I 
do this rather than that, go this way rather than that?
What magical happenstance lies where in this
short life of mine? 

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