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The soft eaves of snow, leverage,
the feeling to do good, this mountain
the last stretch of the journey,
its snow exhaust gray and empty.
Cleanliness has little to do with any of this.
Bunched grass crumbles underfoot,
stale and dying, brown and useless.
Nor can cleanliness change a crowscape.
This path may be the last one for the sage
or it may be the beginning steps for the fool.
I cross country ski in this park.
The tracks I make remain where I make them. >
