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Through humid haze, langurs lounged on branches like philosophers Their tails curled around questions Nothing was urgent except the shade
In reeds near dusk, bitterns vanished into pattern Their camouflage turned truth into guesswork I left unsure if I’d seen anything—or everything
You can’t pour from an empty soul. Fill yours first.
Near the stream, a raccoon washed its prize with careful devotion Each movement was meticulous, almost ceremonial Even mischief performs its rituals