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Comments about Charles Hill
Soft winds knead the grass,
Like bakers kneading dough,
blowing gently alas,
Hugging the grass low. Leaves rustling in the wind,
Creating an impeccable tune,
While tree limbs slightly bend,
Gentle as a harvest moon. I walk through towering pines,
Hearing whispering wind blow,
Music so soft and fine,
Generating a grand symphonic show. Never stop whispering to the ear.
Blow soft don't squall.
Just keep blowing near,
Bringing joy to all.