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| | Language of the Geese By © David Dorrell 2007
The last of the blue streaks fade gray and green hues endure squares of soft edged orange and circles of golden artificial suns shimmer.
The geese begin to talk. Chattering their secrets, murmuring Listen. the cars are gone. I can hear, but can't understand their words.
Smell of moist earth, damp grass, gray green leaves of farmer's toil rustle around me. The wind speaks To the geese.
Tube and lens bounded fires finitely constant, mock my glass eyed gaze. The geese sing to the star filled sky.
Time is an abstraction Immortality is real, for now. Listen. the cars are back. I can't hear, can't understand Their words. |
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