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Memory. Landscape. How do they play? As I experience creation, this beautiful land, there is always a moment of selfish wonder - a moment of “this is my favorite place, created just for me.” And yet, as quickly as my visual hoarding takes hold, a sound, the wind, perhaps the smell of pinon or cut hay, push my hoarding aside and welcome the mystery: Who else has shared this space? What memory does this land hold? What ghosts run through these fields?
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