The little blowing horn. I answered the phone and there was a voice I missed, I wrote down in letters some type and a word traveled over. Always travel led wrong. Always a misspelling, but misgivings. And the counting down gets drastic when shoveling.
A solemn horn blown, like a canada goose flown. An upwash, a downwash, a flight formed. A skein, a hair catching wind. To pretend you know so much is all tempts, the quick showers of delight flash over like a cloud gone by the sun.
