Odd Walking Thoughts

Tell about the mud and the grass and the birds. Are they often. Do they care about you? Will they sing when the mud is empty and the only things remaining are about thoughts foaming; as though a dog has gone too far and the sun has mislead. “I don’t know”, speaks a tree; just heard the final call in the strength of a single piece of paper that never was. We’re rather sure about the paper, and the caring.

-M. Taggart

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