June 11, 2017

Running through the wheatfields,

With the last of the woods laid low, 

Our company heard a cuckoo,

In lament we rose to sow.

A mist from our boughs ascended,

Out of daylight a moon shone clear,

A stain from the sky descended,

And the flood crept slowly near.

No ark has co...

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November 25, 2018

February 21, 2018

February 19, 2018

February 6, 2018

February 4, 2018

January 7, 2018

December 22, 2017

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