Woven by priests and jeweled by the sea
“come across as a blackbird,” gloats the white hand of greed
stealing through the temple; breezing through the trees
he grins, he might catch one, mid-saunter and brief
per chance to dream suddenly and ferociously
remote viewing the future and distantly green
until feathers go swirling with dead maple leaves
and words just go riding and writing themselves

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