sketch
59/100
Lines listlessly bleed from a pencil
Cold gray eyes pull and scan
Those brilliant fields
That one burnt tree
Those children playing on a picnic blanket
Cirrocumulus clouds stretch into the horizon
It smells like honey, dirt and sun
The toppings of Spring
The paper imbues these hues
Though not perfectly
nothing captures this moment perfectly
Even now its changing
An airplane breaks high overhead
A cars door slams in the distance
Everything changes
No matter how fast Im sketching
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