The blazing sun, ricocheted off the smooth pavement hitting him with instant disclosure.

Perched on the bank, as reflective as the ripples of the pond the boy pondered; one shoe and sock in hand, as forlorn as his demeanour. 

Aunt Tilly , as worn as the family Bible she was comforting,  sat as erect and proud as her straight back chair.

In the reservation the old Indian sat smoking in his tent, the stone pipe’s glaze reflecting a vacant gaze; his body was here but his heart and soul were in the past.

Elsewhere a melody wafted into the moonlight, the lone musician caressed his guitar, sadness the song.




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