Stillness.
There is no wind.
Not a branch moves
overhead.
The grass is as quiet
as the sky -
black and framed by tree-fingers.
The world is away,
hidden by white trunks of old
aging aspens.
We lay together in the quiet,
hands entwined.
Eyes reflect the span of the stars.
How small we are.
How large we can become
on the grass,
hand in hand.
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