On my coffee table there are some books. Old by any standards. The fabric on them tell their story. Stains that appear as old. Who am I to tell otherwise. I know they are old since they have been in my possession a while, not a long while, but enough time has passed since they came to form to know that they are old volumes.

The clouds this evening seem like that. Been here, done that. The light, the green leaves in their splendor. The night insisting like a drunk sailor on something we discard like old clothes.

Earth. The cumulus adrift. It is Spring. No, it is summer. A wind casts its force, the branches swing about. The insects amock. The birds attent listen for the worm’s wiggle. The hours dictate a new clock. The seconds are about to strike and the minute hand makes its move.

Oyth said BugsBunny. I always dreamed of a place like that. Deep down in some underground. Or not. I see many insects on the grass blades. Flowers and such.

I fear. Only because I know no better.

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