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is standing at a stove in a terry bathrobe stirring a pot of oatmeal with a wooden spoon. Late last night she was busy writing in the margins of her book and this afternoon she will take a walk in the memories of someone else, but at this moment there is only the mush, the circling spoon and the clock's hands, now her wrist bends easily- stirs the aroma of nuts and milk- the kind of moment when an awakening is likely to sneak in. Not when she is focused, thinking, propped up on pillows in bed to read but when she is down by the lake stiring the shallow water with a twig, or sweeping her walk of pine needles and looks up at a spider web and then there is only her, the wet walk, and that spider whose web is slowly taking the form of a reflective poem.
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