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Orchard

 Consider the orchard. It judges moments by eons. It knows the passivity of red sunset. The skirling readiness of grey dawn excites the orchard. The trees of orchardness symbolically bear light with vigorous enfranchisement. A word exists for that, if you can find it. Stories told become, which awkwardly implies lanterns. When you walk in orchard you think of the borne fruit. That fruit unravels time in a seductive test case. A blue sky brings proverbs. An aptitude for music, or any gushing of words, or simply the colours between colours, these all cede to orchard as place before place and after. The day begins in moments and slyly ends as well. Consider the orchard.


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