Shadows disjointed wind and air Yesterday's mist on a copper kettle too long. Tomorrow's mist searches the marrow. No waiting, just lingering: The Sun says a hot goodbye The crickets sing with maturity, and with a blues tune shared. The last Cicada droned loudly somewhere, Butterflies don't care; they are blissfully drunk on Buddleia nectar. Lingering. Some call it malingering. It's called ruin the day. A carefree day blessed upon the worried frow.
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