So many windows competing,
He wanders and tries them all.
He rests at one, not a particular one,
And has a stopover...seeking out past his stare reflected in the glass.
"What are you thinking about?" she reminds him of the now.
From the nearby that little beat-up Aiwa player continues the far-away whispers in his head.
The maybe part of him runs over the distant hill and disappears.
"I call them the Adam Winds," he answered.
Sometimes prairie, sometimes Santa Anna, all-times longing.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
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