2113: Grasslands

It’s almost blusher pink –
that colour of grass tips
at this time of year – my
dog leaps as she hunts –

here untouchable birds
rise from her – dusk will
mark losses of colours –
greens slump with dew

as air kisses dampen all
fervour – moths play out
confusing games [white
scatterings – bending &

testing routes] – We will
leave trails by my boots
through these pastures
[not meeting any other]

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