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Between the reaching shale of
Two high rock altars,
Markings have appeared.

Back in town,
Those of us who are here
Are busy studying the pictures.
And at some final hour
Patterns emerge
In the ash.

We sit around a table

I carry a bowl into the room.
I slump in a chair and
I pick at myself.

Then she writes down the message.

New life grows from old soil
Patiently taken care of.
In all of the sacred directions,
Throw seeds of corn
From one hundred families.

Back to the seeing time.

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