11/5/2010

3

The wind rustles in the crown of one red oak; all the others are still. A train whistle. The light patches in the clouds fade to blue.

3 Comments


  2. Happy BBirthday. It’s been a pleasure to read.

    And a (daresay “the”) wonderful entry to micropoetry.


  3. Thanks, guys! Awfully glad you’re still reading.

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