Damn. This hardly ever happens. A day off. I'm supposed to write possibly two poems today to keep up with Magpie Tales and Sunday Whirl. Not this week. Playing hooky on my own creativity calling. Reminds me of this:
Only the eagle is my own head and so is the mouse. Oh ho. Is that what they mean by "drinking weather"?
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.