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When granite and sandstone begin to blur and flow, the eye rests on cool white aspen. Strange, their seeming transparency. How as in a sudden flash one remembers a forgotten name, so the recollection. Aspen. With a breeze in them, their quiet rhythms, shimmering, quaking. Powder on the palm. Cool on the cheek. Such delicacy the brittle wood, limbs snapping at a grasp, whole trees tumbling in the winds. Sweet scent on a swollen afternoon. Autumn, leaves falling one upon another, gold rains upon a golden earth. How at evening when the forest darkens, aspen do not. And a white moon rises and silver stars point toward the mountain, darkness holds them so pale. They stand still, very still.