Mother, Our Land.

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Nature does not hurry yet everything is accomplished.

The body being. The plant being. The creature being. The wind moved the arms of the plant around in the sand. The grooves is the experience, the journey it was pushed to make. The ridges of the plant are funky, playing like toes in the deep sand. It simply lives there. The small tracks of the gushy creature, step by step, makes its way across the sand. Other species of plants pierce through the granules, nourished by the the soil feast of the land. Desert dwellers, basking from sunrise to sundown. The slow slither of the snake, finding its way for food through the eyes of a hole. The beauty of the patient. The incandescent magic of our nature, must it not only be of one fate.

She is trying to tell us something, but for nothing needs to be understood.

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