wind blows the white wilds there and back, mad egg whites, whipped and frothing;

no cobwebs here, no cobwebs there, clouds are gray duvets stretched then bunched,

they have no end, even where they begin to gallop, no horses from the camargue, they,

but the wildly shod of desert dunes. and hills are moored today but sky is loose,

though wide and an electric jewellery airshow arcs not far away. trees are running,

they shake their heads and scream, they all move west, faster then the sun.

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