The hills black,
faint pink cloud
over Sulphur
in first light cool.
Nights grows longer
with the shadows
when we dream
of winter storms,
four years dry.
We feed our future hay
until the time comes
we have nothing else to do.
The hills black,
faint pink cloud
over Sulphur
in first light cool.
Nights grows longer
with the shadows
when we dream
of winter storms,
four years dry.
We feed our future hay
until the time comes
we have nothing else to do.
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I pray that time never comes; at least the time I think you’re talking about.
janet
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We are learning how to live like the rest of the world: day to day, hand to mouth . . . One thing is necessary: ‘a long obedience in the same direction’ . . .
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