A flying bus all jostle looks honk in sky. That treasure road when people Not so blind. An arithmetic of fancy will save us, say the feathery bus driver. The glossary will let us know. Some towns are cold and chancy, with elevation sold to riches. Yet listen for the hounding. A breath of language in the bus-driven clouds. The best of bird and tree will stay, stay and bright forest. Beneath the bus, all forest and water. The sky remain something blue and fine towards daily then today.
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