driving home…

woodcock stalk the heather

as a pair of hinds take flight

there are murmurs in the weather

declaimed from mouth of night

.

thoughts from the day form clouds of mist

that wander down the road

there are items left upon the list

oars never to be rowed

.

woodcock talk of heather

as a pair of hinds melt by

there are whispers in the weather

that wander past then die

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