There was an overcast final day,
The sky still, motionless, and gray,
A slight wind rose, moved, and was gone.
One bird circled silently above.
The last cry from the horn of his stomach
filled the empty air, heard by nothing and no one.
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride
photo by John Hogl
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