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  • Writer's pictureShawn McNulty-Kowal


Updated: Sep 28, 2021

The height isn’t the thing, but how she surrounds herself with trees disguised as mountains. When it’s cloudy, the tops of green trees blend themselves, swirl themselves, merge themselves into the sky that’s white and that rests so close to the ground. So close, it feels as though the clouds are as reachable as the ground below. When it’s so cloudy and the world feels less giant, less daunting. The tops of trees that look like they’re immune to getting burned, or; immortal. She bounces between the mountain’s sides. As people make use of her. And if you could just look upon her as figure and not something to be used, you might not look upon her at all and who will feel cheated then?

She is so good at balance and that is precisely why you cannot shake the thought of her. Cannot shake her. You are not good at balance and that is why you seek her. The way she just swings between two pieces of rock and how she’s able to just let things collide on top of her and the clouds that rest just above her - the way she cradles it all without strife.

Favazzina, who finds home above the belly of a valley where dogs howl at the crunch of leaves and the glimmer of sunlight inside meadows that are disguised as stages. And you’ll be looking upon the sea before meeting those dogs below - the sea right in front of her: Favazzina. And still those dogs howl, it feels, just in order to spite you. And still you remain. Still, present yourself. To the valley of leaves burnt by the sun. Present yourself, present your self. At last. Something like the last word. Finally. Exhale and let ribs concave just a bit and feel the grooves that create cages, stages. She cradles you with her cages, cradles her stage - she swings above the valley while cradling you. The sea in front of her - of you - is endless, and so it feels.

But, of course, it ends. However, if you’ll allow yourself to imagine the endlessness of this world. On cloudy days, when the world feels, not daunting, but endlessly white. As you walk, you imagine the sky is the sea and on you walk and on you walk and on you walk. The clouds just touching the baby hairs blooming from the top of your crown. If only the sky could always feel so close to the ground, you could jump whenever you’d like and never reach the valley below. Swinging or flying. Rest, or; balance. Nothing like the last word, but instead one that’s sung.

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