You stand in a puddle, temporary mirror, and are startled by your own beauty. Birds wade by your ankles. When the wind carries away your hat, you let it go, sailing into another life.
You think of the time you lept the perilous gap, and landed perfectly balanced on the knife edge of stone, and knew that yours was the grace and the power and the glory. You craved no audience, being your own.
You remember the guru who many years ago, years like leaves in the wind, spoke of shooting himself, an arrow, into the burning heart of God, and you know he had stood in a puddle, temporary mirror, and been startled by his own beauty.
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