John Gallar

(San Jose, California)

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Sticky fog patches bedew squinty eyes,
Faint wail of skylark falls deep into heart...
Smoke from burned quitch grass licks face with a tart,
Leaves whipper prayers falling from the skies...
Autumn begins its mystery design...
What autumn is it? Is it 39?
Innocent shadows crawl over the trees,
Children catch sun spots in a morning play;
Suddenly rattling...Bullets spatter clay...

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