A thin, white Sunday: our street of backyards without fences, stands of trees in parchment sketches - each branch, each trunk and twig a penciled clarity. Far beyond, the tint of Flattop chalked against a milky sky, unseen from here through other seasons - the assumed fences jungled over, shrubs and trees lush masses greening vision. A monochrome sparseness fills the distance: abundance in the underneath of things, a quiet at home inside you no green season knows.

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