Though supposed to be
somewhere else
he’s improbably there:
stretched out on his back
in a field of purple clover,
hands beneath his head,
feet crossed at the ankles.
Humming a tune,
he smiles as the wind
ruffles his hair.
Stretched out on his back
in a field of purple clover,
hands beneath his head,
feet crossed at the ankles,
humming a tune.
He smiles as the cool spring wind
ruffles his hair,
knowing he’s supposed to be
somewhere else.
By Red Haircrow
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