I canít see, Screamed the owl. Fogged muzzled vision Torched in waterheat. Then before this peaceful atmosphere, A red, yet orange object. The ground screeched its name, Upon another. A blue almost grey object. Two glows in the darkness, Merge to one eruption. The trees looked on, And the grass will always remember the better days. The owl hooted again, I canít see.

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All Works © 1998, 1999 Joseph John