Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Lobo Was Here

If I knew what to say, I would say it if I only knew what to hear, what is warning. The bells all maroon, the buttercups and breezes. Water runs there, over the meadow. Fall air is dry. The leaves are crackling. I am the mystery, the Eiffel Tower of the woods and mountains, plains and tundra, deserts.

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