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By John I. Blair

Muted chirps of restless birds,
An interrupted breeze,
The smell of earth, of dew,
A groan from shifting trees,

Subtle chilling of my skin
Though the air is warm,
A sense Iím missing something
That borders on alarm.

The night is like a catís
Immense-eyed stare:
Familiar, but not too far
From a door to nowhere.

©2006 John I. Blair  

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