A square of dirt, fresh cut of corn-
their roots still vainly hug the earth.
A sheet of clouds, the moon above
peers sadly through the threads.
And walkers by the moonlight stride
across some farmer's summer land
and feel effects of magic smoke
with tickets in their hand.
But nothing ties together these
than what was spinning through the air--
a web of music, thickly spread
put spiders in their hair.
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