I stroll through childhood acreage. Miles of vineyards and the yellow dust of pesticides on my sneakers. I shoot jackrabbits with pistol-point fingers and whistle chiptunes to cherry trees.
During the evening, I hear a cacophony of frog songs. They sing counterpoint to the deep wail of distant trains. I idly stir my memories together with calloused fingertips, and sip bitter nostalgia from the missing mouth of my lost lover.
I swallow and realize that this elixir still needs to age a few decades.
9:23 p.m. - 2015-04-16
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