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In the mornings, the tide rises high and green, still as glass. White cherry blossoms lean out over the water–beautiful dryads admiring their fair faces. Mist rises like water spirits to greet the dryads above. When the tide lowers, white seagulls wander among the pebbles and mud.

Mud Bay. Aptly named.

The valley is cut by the freeway. I try to imagine what it was like before the asphalt and green crosses and fishermen on the bridge. Brown cows wander through the marshy field, crowned by evergreened hills. Sometimes if you look carefully, you can see a white head. A bald eagle.

I remember a tale told. How a musician magicked the neighbors cows out of the gate, playing on his flute. Out in the misty fields. Could these cows out near the Mud Bay be magicked by the grey-blue herons on stilt legs, playing a reed pipe?

Watch the weaving, bobbing lights. Out on the moor. Where the mudflats lie.

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“Following Your Feet, A Young Woman’s Journey”

Page Count: 287 (Second Edition)

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Following Your Feet

 

 

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