NOBODY knew that we whispered in the ear of a butterfly.
Nobody remembers how it spoke to the dawn or that the flowers knew its voice or that the birds raised banners and trumpets and marched past like toy soldiers upon the road of morning light.
We almost remember when spring opens the windows and rustles the sheets of sleep with light.
The sea appears from somewhere.
Even the field draws closer like a green tortoise just waking.
Later the field goes back to being a field, and we the children that play in the field.
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