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Indian Summer
by Michael Escoubas

The spittle of cows
threads the wind
used up spider's webs
are witches riding brooms.

As the haze lifts
from last night's dew
I hear flute notes
rise into the atmosphere.

Oak-leaf hands reach out
withered but laced with gold
the meadow's carpet
recedes in leaner green.

Rolling hills wear purple
gowns wrapped in shawls
of cyan blue, the brook
hasn't ceased its snare-drum roll.

Would that I display
such elegance when seasons
change, as they will, and my
hands reach out weathered and still.


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