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, the blossoms of the fire flames in the stove—There’s giving an apple to the mule, the big lips taking hold—There’s the bluejay drinking my canned milk by throwing his head back with a miffle of milk on his beak—There’s the scratching of the raccoon or of the rat out there, at night—There’s the poor little mouse eating her nightly supper in the humble corner where I’ve put out a little delight-plate full of cheese and chocolate candy (for my days of killing mice are over)—There’s the raccoon in his fog, there the man to his fireside, and both are lonesome for God—There’s me coming back from seaside nightsittings like a muttering old Bhikku stumbling down the path—There’s me throwing my spotlight on a sudden raccoon who clambers up a tree his little heart beating with fear but I yell in French “Hello there little man” (allo ti bonhomme)—There’s the bottle of olives, 49¢, imported, pimentos, I eat them one by one wondering about the late afternoon hillsides of Greece—And there’s my spaghetti with tomato sauce and my oil and vinegar salad and my applesauce relishe my dear and my black coffee and Roquefort cheese and afterdinner nuts, my dear, all in the woods—(Ten delicate olives slowly chewed at midnight is something no one’s ever done in luxurious restaurants)—There's the present moment fraught with tangled woods—There’s the bird suddenly quiet on his branch while his wife glances at him—There’s the grace of an axe handle as good as an Eglevsky ballet—There’s “Mien Mo Mountain” in the fog illumined August moon mist among other heights gorgeous and misty rising in dim- 30