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Played with the f
stop's invisible hand
Hoping to capture my view of the land
Worse than not seeing the beets for the borscht
Must be not seeing the tree for the forest
Mood moss on the forest floor
If that's what you really are
One's imagination says
Lord High Pack Rat's lost his fez
What makes the lichen grow this way
A stitch toward tapestry each day
As if there were a master plan
That's wielded by some random hand?
While we were hunkering down inside
And straight line winds tore through town
Airborne debris took its toll outside
Sap's evidence trickling down
ONE LAST ACORN
Go on and hit the snooze, Buster
Hibernate some more
I've scoured every oak cluster
This is all I saw
DRY CREEK BLUES
How the sunlight unwraps the dormant hues
It's peeling back the snow
If it weren't for a case of dry creek blues
Our mountain stream would flow