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Wood, living was and living is, about, beyond. By water, aside, shrouded in their cragged armor, bearing shadows, matching wind with sounds of faint brushing. Under foot creaking, weathered, scuffed friendly slats, below lies a world for whatever creature will have it, no bother. Cradling me, formed to me, worn by me, wrapped in smoothly fashioned lines, suspended on bows that scratch the grit beneath, swaying fro and to, against and with ease and breeze. Knotted rail before me, partly covering my seeing by, but fine enough itself for with grain, deeply split on its length, but rock strong still by nature. Back of me a crafted stack of grouted logs, framed about by aged skill for ever standing, openings bordered with contrasting colors of autumn. Covered by branch thatch, earthen and mud, made lullaby by rain, clouded below summer sun, creating sculptures in ice in winter.