Days of nothingness Days of clear skies the temperature descending Days of no telephone calls or all the wrong ones Days of complete boredom and nothing is happening Days of 1967 coming to a close in the frigid condition of chest cold and cough drops Days of afternoons in the life of a
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Journey aka OR7
What's his likeness amongst the north/south divide, amongst the shifting winter light at high noon? What's his call in the ghost of his likeness? When is the full moon full? When will the warmth of his paw be a blessing, his eyes friendly, his look the look of a god? When will the wild forever be wild in the high rough, in the fallen bark, in the scrub grass? How far will he see from afar in the snow haze? How far?