He was a tree, a plant, a blade of grass
until that no longer served existance
He was a speech, a phrase, a word
until silence invaded the living noise
His soul light blue hovering over the sloped clay bank
rocky and uneven and all grey light brown
tinged by the land´s own weeds and dry brown patches
All stained by the late morning´s predictable high cloud
Slightly darker still below the cattle scarred hills
the tall overhanging valley evergreens shading the edge of the river
restless soul shaking it´s ghost leg and scrambling over the stones
Dying to be part of the river, to know it´s flow
So that he could be a drop, a liter, a pond´s expanse
Until there was little difference between him and the earth and the air
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