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(Charm #9 from Practical Thaumaturgy)

Your back's the color of the fields

Dried out for winter; or soft bark,

Or trampled snow, bright fish, straw, clay,

Slate, stone, a wild hill in the dark.

Your eye is yellow as the moon

At the horizon; gray as foam,

Or green or copper as some cold

Woodland where silent hunters roam.

I see I fill you with contempt.

I cannot prove your feeling wrong.

But understand, at least, that I,

Like you, am not where I belong.

Susannah Mandel has lived for ten years in Boston, two years in France, and several months in Philadelphia. She hopes never to move back to the suburbs. Her favorite hobbies include stories, sunlight, looking at stuff, and going into detail. Please feel free to tell her interesting things.
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