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Towards Evening
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The muted roar of tidal surge
sounds like a convergence of one
million whispers.
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Reflection of the sun's unrolled
like a ragged carpet on the surface
of the sea.
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To touch the wind with your tongue
is to taste ancient salt and conjure
braids of kelp.
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Soon the sea will say its vespers
deep inside its tidal whispers.
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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
