I looked outside my window November sunrise sharply painting the air clear and bright. The wind walks, doesn’t run through the yard. It opens and folds itself into the growing forest. There are more leaves on the ground than on the trees and so that fluttering dance is rare each one is spotlighted in the autumn air a dried soul dance riding the faint touch of wind into eternity joining the song of the earth the slow dreaming song of decay and merging to melt into the ground to spin inside the earth speaking the language of ground the dreaming of oceans wrapping around the earth and one leaf merging into the earth one leaf one earth the same. It was eighty five years ago today that Joe Hill died killed by his brothers murdered by his country. His ashes floated on a slight autumn breeze through most every country in the world and every state in the union save one (Where no man should be found dead, said he) One man merging with the good earth air and sky of a thousand countries of a million dreams one earth one man the same his words moving beyond the ashes of his used up form growing, now planted solid and slow in the endless circle of life born and reborn growing one leaf, endless one dream, slowly growing always Joe Hill planted on the wind that covers the earth His eyes looking back from a million fellow travelers.

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