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from the meadow
buffaloes appear
and graze on treetops
careless they float
in ether –
the leaves they nibble
are higher than my roof
and soon their spring feeding
will change to a fall
of crackling orange cover
on tin roofs
(they do not see me)
in their reality –
they are a spell
of my imagination
while I bask in fading sunlight
though one day
when we all dream
these clouds will become
as precious
as the people
who seal our hearts in love
or a moment –
pondering
the origins of shooting stars

. . .

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