My daughter drew blue astronauts in wigwams on the moon— such fleeting sidewalk figments of that spring. In summer rain, they vanished; she forgot their faces soon. But sometimes late at night, I hear them sing.
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My daughter drew blue astronauts in wigwams on the moon— such fleeting sidewalk figments of that spring. In summer rain, they vanished; she forgot their faces soon. But sometimes late at night, I hear them sing.
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Thanks for sharing. This hit a silent connective cord for me.