A stick, a stone,
it’s the end of the road

It’s the rest of the stump
It’s a little alone

It’s a sliver of glass,
It is life, it’s the sun,

It is night, it is death,
It’s a trap, it’s a gun.

The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,

The knot in the wood,
The song of the thrush.

The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,

A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all.

It’s the wind blowing free.
It’s the end of a slope.

It’s a beam, it’s a void,
It’s a hunch, it’s a hope.

And the riverbank talks.
Of the water of march

It’s the end of the strain,
It’s the joy in your heart.

The foot, the ground,
The flesh, the bone,

The beat of the road,
A slingshot stone.

A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,

A fight, a bet,
The range of the bow.

The bed of the well,
The end of the line,

The dismay in the face,
It’s a loss, it’s a find.

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