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A
Bunnik
Steam as thick as darkness mingles with the scent of old pine boards
within the ancient bath house where a bunnik lay resting, sleeping,
dreaming of the sun and the rain. Remembering when he was a fur tree
growing; rising higher and higher with his brothers and sisters.
Squirrels playing among his branches, stealing his seeds.
The Bunnik wakes. Walking pacing the bath house, claws of iron scraping
hard wood. Rough feet sanding the edges to a smooth sheen. Wood dust
rises and the smell grows. The bunnik rests once more.
Cuddling the darkness, the dull and dim beauty of the sauna.
People pass in and out and rest beside him, feeling his presence,
beautiful and strange like reverence at a church. Rough hands scrape
people as they wash with bars of lye and fat to warn of danger, of the
wrong path. Soft hands pat them when they are right. But no one ever
sees him. The bunnik is always alone.
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