white sheep in the wind.
In the summer they can be calculated
lying on his back on the grass.
A feel for how ants
torture me, they
seems to be a sharp,
burn the teeth.
I write my thoughts,
a poem or two.
The world rests in the lap of the heat,
and there is no silence
choked in my ear not
this more complete.
We have two personalities
a different perspective, I,
and writable woman.
Photographer maybe the third,
Finnish raccoon.
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