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She rose long before the sun did, and like the sun was silent.

Shaking off her nightdress like a bad dream, she crossed her room to stand at the window. She gazed up at the stars and smiled.

She took two pitchers and filled them to the brim with cool, fresh water. Then, still naked, she walked out under the stars.

She was unhurried and tranquil, walking slowly and smoothly so that she did not spill a single drop of the water in her pitchers. She walked to the edge of the pool and knelt, one foot in the water, the other on the land.

Slowly, she poured the water out; one pitcher she emptied into the pool, and one pitcher she emptied onto the land.

And so, with hope and trust and a simple ritual, she and the land were renewed.

© Kari Fay

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