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October 2013, vol 8, no 3

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Bruce Ross


Whale-shaped clouds going down to the ocean and returning. The long wait ends with mother and child scratching their sides against the small boat. I breathe in the fine mist of the young one and do reiki on the cuts in its back, the mother keeping an eye on me. I silently thank the mother and dissolve into the wonder of this world.

young gray whale
embedded in a barnacle
tiny seashells