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Down On The Pond Beneath the shade of willows in the west, reeds stand tall out of water, where deadfall dams a little falls, birds perch on broken limbs, sing down the sun. We sit on the grassy knoll, damp as sweat, tell creek tales in between the civilized speak of politics and social grace as day descends, down on the pond. The Arabian comes to drink, smell our pockets for orange sticks or round, red orbs, or just a hand to stroke his brow. He reaches from behind, lights his lips across my cheek. And the herd converges on this resort, pulls up close as cropped grass, commands us to our feet, seeks confirmation at the close of another day. |
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