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What remains
Beyond the open gate,
A tennis ball sits in the tall grass
On the cracked steps,
And old hound watches,
Lying in wait.
From somewhere beyond the gate,
a young dog calls out.
His ears twitch,
Then he lifts his head,
As if he remembers something.
Then the sound fades.
He rests his muzzle on the cold stone as he closes his eyes,
Turning his back to the open gate.
DO NOT REUPLOAD
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