a hare-brained happenstance
like mice caught in the field
what i haven't sewn in meadows green
what i haven't harbored in the docks
naught to offer, none to savor
dried up twigs line the landscape
it's fire season, on the cusp of Fall's divisive razor
we'll draw the lines we're given, there is nothing more or less to offer
the bet comes with what you're dealt
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