Dark wings that brush the foliage
above us; the crunch of hoofs
in frost, a river flowing
in the lonely voice of the coyote.
As they walk through the moonlight,
we come and go by the flare
of campfires, full of ghosts
with huge, wounded hearts.
Dark wings that brush the foliage
above us; the crunch of hoofs
in frost, a river flowing
in the lonely voice of the coyote.
As they walk through the moonlight,
we come and go by the flare
of campfires, full of ghosts
with huge, wounded hearts.
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