The whitest of clouds,
the bluest of skies, mirrored
in stillest of ponds –
the air, neither hot nor cold,
smelling of harvested hay.
JDG
The whitest of clouds,
the bluest of skies, mirrored
in stillest of ponds –
the air, neither hot nor cold,
smelling of harvested hay.
JDG
Wonderful description of this lovely month.
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