Epiphanies… are daily miracles.

 

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Campsite: Mount Hotham (1969)

Bright gold bleeds along the ridge.
Above it, a high, improbable blue

The only sound, now that insects sleep,
Is from the stream
Chewing the mountain’s granite bones
Down there below black angles
Of white-trunked Sallee .

Now, firelight flutters ,
Bubbles and spills
Old sunshine into light,
While the fragile geometry of the world
Retreats again.

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