Does the gull dream
as it flies above the trees,
across blue waters or golden fields?
Or does it simply crack clams
on rocks below,
whirling down to catch the crown,
just to do another round?
Do we rustle with the leaves
or struggle through another do?
The paradox of do or done
sits on my lips, I speak of none.
Step up on the rung,
one-by-one in do or done.
Climb the tree, swim the waves
run through fields,
and crack the clams
for there is no other way
to amble through
this strange, brutal, but
beautiful, sublime,
and wistful life,
bestowed to you
in the heat of a night.
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