.
.
They come singly, the little streams,
Out of their solitude. They bear
In their rough fall a spate of gleams
That glance and dance in morning air.
.
They com singly, and coming go
Ever downward toward the river
Into whose dark abiding flow
They come, now quieted, together.
.
In dark they mingle and are made
At one with light in highest flood
Embodied and inhabited,
The budded branch as red as blood.
.
~ Wendell Berry
(Given)
.
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