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The Weasel

Before she left,

holding her thermos

of hot coffee, into the predawn, I said, May you see a long-tailed weasel.

That slender,

lithe, little carnivore,

made of equal parts

play and mischief,

which had eluded me

all these years.

So, later

when she said,

Guess what, I knew it meant

she had seen one

among the grass.

Laying claim

to that impulse

to have said what I did

would be indulgence -

I was only a kind

of vessel

For who can trace the origins of intuition?

Sometimes, I think time

is not so linear, but perhaps

it was the weasel itself,

reaching out.

Sly weaver of magic.

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