October will be my spring held aloft in the soft pine needles of the stratus cloud placid waters a gelid graveyard, stagnant waiting "Be still, don't try harder," the adage whispers; I breathe. Sometimes, one can see his reflection on the surface beneath the periwinkle sun he contemplates the thought of drowning believes he must, …
"over the hills and far away"
The-Bleu-Bivouac 