The light that lifts the day has fallen on beebrush, and the ghost
of God, which smells so much like these pale flowers bees cross over,
is everywhere in the air. The stars disappear one by one, and once again
we are blind to what anchors the body: peeling bark of the madrona tree,
thorn of honey mesquite, the purple dust of cenizo settling in dry basins,
as the sky opens to another shade of blue and the sun to another shade of white.
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