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There is nothing to see.
Dense fog
Straightened walls
Restrict me
Seem to make
my world smaller.
I can hear the geese
On faraway waters
Calling into the mist
Goldfinches
High and tinkling
The soft husharush
Of the south wind rustling
Tall dry grass
By the cobwebby gate
The crows are loving
the thrill of temporary blindness
Hurtling over the infinite edge
Howling with joy
And I love
The illusion of haste
As I race down the hill.

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