When the mountains are devoured
by the soft, white tongue
of the sky, the world ceases to exist
for a moment. Everything is erased—
and I am isolated, a tiny lake
surrounded by land.
Only magic could do this, but I know
that magic doesn’t exist.
Not really.
But tell that to the mountains,
swimming in the belly of the sky
and waiting to be broken
into hail.
JKolasch
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