Dead Grass

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The grass I cut a week ago are lying dead and dry on the ground, but I leave them be.  Agitated birds perched  atop nearby trees are singing merry tunes this cool and still Saturday afternoon, and just might find them later when it’s time to build nests. Everything seems fine with my feathered and winged friends this part of the universe.  I wonder if they know how fragile their world has become and how precariously it is seated at the precipice– staring down the  void of destruction waiting below.

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