There is something about the clouded full moon that makes thought so clear. I walk a lane, trees on my right, brush on my left. The soil and rock beneath my feet.
The ceiling above is present although consoling, not constraining. Air is sweet at night. And what was mingled indoors reshapes into focus, weaving new threads of cognition.
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2 comments:
Sounds like poetry. Your great-great grandfather, Parke Burgess, would be pleased!
This isn't one of my favorites, although it's what came out that night!
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