On the cliff top I stand.
I’m looking out to sea.
The rolling white horses, in their morning silence are calling only to me.
The breeze flicks my hair.
It’s chilly.
Not a soul to be seen, save mine.
Closer I move.
Near to the edge.
Checking out the lichen, which dresses the rocks.
From nowhere the wind increases, without intention I find myself flying.
I’m a perfect butterfly without wings.

It’s later now.
The walker of the blonde dog finds me.
Laid prone, potentially slain by the wind.
The dog.
The beautiful dog licks my cheek.
I stir.
The walker looked on, somewhat bemused.
He dropped to his knees.
So handsome.
Confused conversation ensued.
Whatever will be will be.

Thank you John Smallshaw for a little inspiration.

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