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My Kind of People

The ones who walk barefoot in forestsas if the soil still knows their names.Who talk to crows,drink rain from cupped hands,and believe a breeze can carry answers. The ones who cry at the scent of pine,laugh without needing to explain why,and vanish when the moon is fullonly to return with storiesno one else remembers. They are made of moss and memory.Of silence that sings.Of firelight and…