It was the early hours of morning
A lonely shepherd and a herd of docile beasts
He could hear the yawns of the grass
and the travel of semi-ice molecules in air
He could inhale transitory ice,
Grab it from its trajectory,
Through his lips and onto his canines
It’s fine
It’s pure, docile entertainment
On that specific morning
Well really in any other morning
Silence was an excuse
A kind of way of doing
Of herding
A well preserved and transmitted craft
Forget the herd
There was this fleeting molecule of air
Transparent, but still he knew it was mischievous
It traveled in its own nonsensical dance
And he followed it
Partially, attentively, with resignation
A recent sense of non-being
Without being annihilated
Anyway there will always be molecules of air
And they will swirl, along with detached grass in the winds
That carry them altogether
In one significant batch…
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