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Verses in a dry land

Water is laughter, children running through an empty house, a phantom guitar that spills notes in cottonwood shade. A thread of music weaves green verses on bleached cloth, a chorus of crows. Willows sigh, feet resting in green. You can hear frogs, insect wings. A thousand songs hover just out of reach like an iridescent dragonfly. We lie on soft banks singing the same old words, a green song in a land of brass and hard blue silence.

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