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Our Silhouettes lurk in the misty shadows of the redwood trees. The tattered hems of our dresses are embroidered with mud and twigs. We are the wanderers of the dawn, the foragers in the forest with stained finger tips from the bellies of black berries, with sweet juice lingering on tangy lips. During the hours the soil lie dreaming beneath indigo skies; we are on the hunt. We are the collectors of bones beneath the moonlight, who sing songs with the crickets in dry creek beds. We’ve taken an ineffable fondness for the hum of the night, and how it beats in harmony with the tune of our Hearts. We feel revival in the connection of the earth and bare feet.  We are the Screechers and Howlers, the shadow prowelers. We wear our souls around our necks, talismans of our invisible frames that live vibrantly through sparkling stars in the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
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