Tiny shards of glass
Hang from tree branches,
Illuminate the rustling leaves,
In the light of the setting sun.
Strings twirl and spin,
Warm evening breeze,
Of glass on glass,
The unrehearsed melody.
A grass hill expands from the roots
Supporting the large trunk.
A man slouched,
Asleep,
With a wooden flute in his hand.
He’s not wearing a watch.
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