A June Cold Perhaps it was my chilled my bones that hot fault, that the birds, summer morning. the birds sang. Blameless? When nothing touches you, I? I who tore it is debateable whether you your slip? become more sensitive, or more numb... Forgiveness? Tommorrow, I know not. I cannot hope for such. Perhaps I'll become yet... Disenchanted, like you. Today I fly with the birds at my side.