Wednesday, December 21, 2011

When ripe apples fall and no one picks them up, then this is a strange land. Chiff-straw, trash, poorly-HAP, go back, it was the last day of the Chiff-Chaff called Windmill Hill. The summer was burned like straw in a truck loaded with bales of straw and Chiff, clinging to an ash tree, waited for the coast to clear and the wind calm down before hitting his journey south. There was a thunderstorm and the air was electric. Shreds of cloud, agitated, and the spectrum of gray, churning across the sky, leaving a patch over one eye more bright blue. Far Hills is tarnished when a band of swallows sank in just a spoon Wrekin peas in the north. Half of a flutter on the ground and the disaster if they hit something, swallows slipped under the radar of wind and death.

summer the sun


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