Under the honey locust
a breeze whips at me.
It's my childhood again
when skies were like
this blue today with such
white clouds.
Nothing stirs. Nothing.
Not a motor of the city
sounds.
No bird calls.
A lack of trees reveals
vast heavens, lets me know
the world is mine.
All this, as far as
I can see, is mine
and no other knows.
Not one soul.
-Lindsley Rinard
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