That road through the countryUnspooling under a dark mountainMassages my shins like wine. Rose-colored cliffs protestMy black-and-white ideas.The day in the city is over. Old trees on the hillsides crackTheir knuckles into the air,Pulling at lyres of light. Birds glide on updraftsOf the wound I released.The day in the city is over. Grasses bend in stress,Winds unknot muscles,Leaning hard…

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