but for the hiss of flame and bubbling of water
I stand before the window making batter
the smell of coffee whispers Shelly
A strong breeze through the window
I stop and breath the pines bourn by the wind
Beneath the picnic table sits our fox
[or are we his?]
waiting for a sausage
the low sunlight turning him from rust to orange
Soon pancakes and guests
but for now quiet and memories
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