The birds get louder at dusk
each velvet turning in its purple rusk
young bison chase us to and fro, monsieur;
we never know where or when they stop-
some people say there is no smoke without a fire
I breathe in.
I breathe out smoke-
I breathe out smoke.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
The birds get louder at dusk
each velvet turning in its purple rusk
young bison chase us to and fro, monsieur;
we never know where or when they stop-
some people say there is no smoke without a fire
I breathe in.
I breathe out smoke-
I breathe out smoke.
