A Poet's Journal: March 2nd, 2015
Large flock of ducks flies over so quietly that I only by chance notice them in the reflection of a glass table. Almost all things are part of a world perceived in change and we find that they have been living and existing all along. In the air they are, in the mind they are not, but which truly is their resting-place? Reality is no less flitting than the movements of the eye. Morning rain and fog but soon no trace.
Douglas Thornton
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