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Some days, I feel

it would be indecent

to speak its name

Today I cannot look at it

Driving to the courthouse

this cold winter morning,

from my periphery

I can detect the volcano

is veiled in fog

Its prominence

is overwhelming,

but I dare not risk

a direct gaze

To be clear,

it’s not superstition

Not decorum

It might be intuition

It’s something

old in me that knows

places are not unlike people,

or wild animals

Some days

they require solitude

Some days

they will tolerate



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