| only the eyes of owls can be seen here;
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| they are the stars, they radiate.
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| and every constellation
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| is a fraction of God’s DNA
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| that we were made to notice and navigate.
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| as the moon commands the tide
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| to balance the weight of change,
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| we must learn to follow all the same.
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| when the northern lights were born,
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| the color poured into our eyes,
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| like tipping a glass with the ocean inside.
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| into the darkness,
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| we will send our symphonies —
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| a shorthand of existence,
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| a slowly turning key,
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| the voyager will leave us with this modest memory of home.
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| when the sunlight wakes the earth
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| from its deep sleep,
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| all creatures bloom.
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| and through lifted lashes, all is new.
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| as a newborn recognizes
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| its mother’s voice from inside the womb,
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| may we remember the warmth of our youth.
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| the overture was written,
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| like the calm before a storm.
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| with hummingbird precision,
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| we must follow every chord…
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| time-lapse reveals a slight of hand,
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| it unties the rules of time and plan.
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| stillness is only a state of mind,
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| a blind spot that brightness has left behind.
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| wet paint is a privilege that we will find.
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| as the wrist of an artist
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| pulls the foreground into the frame,
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| we must learn to focus, all the same.
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| all these restless conversations
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| have tied a string to every living thing,
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| and our illustrations will draw them near. |