A windmill spins backwards
to September sneaking in through a gap in the fence
Sounds of the cemetery drift over the back wall in low flung trails of criss-crossing planes
Bees go about their business
Ants march not to war
Nor to the hollows of low hung chimes, sighs on the wind’s breath
Birds words on a whim
of leaves and shadows
Lattices lacing spaces in-between, too late to twine and scent
Too changing to stay.

Passing Thoughts...

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