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halfway up

the hill the rain

becomes fog

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when you stopped

paying attention

to the ivy

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we’ll look for

the little blue

girl too

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on his own

gnat on

the drinking fountain

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a new hobby

devoid of

acronyms

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reveals

the golden rectangle

pile of post-it notes

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morning rain

the pigs stand

as the ducks arrive

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pulling weeds

start with

yourself

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while you’re quiet

you wipe away

the salt

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