Poetry
Over the hills In the east
The sun has risen,
Wrapped itself
Like a blanket
Across the snow covered ground,
It’s lemon-yellow rind
Mixing with clouds
Of red and orange
And an old barn
Squats itself
Between two hillsides,
Showing its bare ribs
To tired old farmers
Wanting to rest there too--
Their pitchforks
Leaning against the stalls.

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