And the garden looked at the gardener that it had made,

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and it saw that she was good.

She laughed and she cried at the birth and the death of a drop of dew.

She filled with the singing the light made

as the leaves breathed it in.

From her porch on the corner of Murray Street, she could see the river.

The black crystals of the road curved out of sight in the sun.

Around her garden the light posts signed the wind

with the oldest sign, that meeting

of the four directions.

The garden looked at the gardener it had made, and saw that she was good.

And the gardener enfolded this knowledge into her heart.

And her heart was filled with such gladness that she wanted

her sisters, and her brothers, and her neighbors, thirsty to hear,

to know what it was

to become a creation

of such a garden,

to know how

those hovering birds would come

to drink and to brawl.

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