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Foster, John Clay

Mountain peaks shiver, breathe

and wiggle their foothill features,

pee behind a cloud, maybe shake

up some starter-sprouts, yawn,

cough up a couple leftover winter

storms, maybe drink some dew

that shines purple, then blue,

then melts away.


They pull up their green socks, take

them off, then put them on again,

maybe shave, then decide halfway

through that they shouldn’t have

shaved in the first place. The sun

walks by, frowns, waddles down

some cliffs then disappears.


Painting by Bruce Park

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