She looks at the sun till her eyes are exhausted and clouds begin to dance like drunken trees. Senses protest a bird caged in sight, a glimpse of absent wrinkles in space- a rebellion handled by the appetite of a crocodile's spine, tranced by the waters of its own lagoon. Toes weigh prints on grass. A bird's wandering for worms is no different from a lion's hunt, but who's to say her gown was white? Maybe they're just colorblind. Tell me something I don't know.
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