I listen to the thrumming of the wind
These trees tell stories of a time,
not so different for some,
The climb is still as steep,
Though the hum less rhythmic.
Electricity lays its lines out flat
for us to keep.
The Ocean Throws up a stone, Flattish, nearly round, Found by a child, Who feels it, The rasping nick, It's nearly a heart. Salt water...
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