From the green bench I recall the word that stuck out  this morning – ephemeral. Is  the water formed in the snow hills ephemeral or the water in the water tanker here over which women fight their loud throats?

All ephemeral things reach their seas ,from the hills and the tankers  and the women’s voices. Their bodies thirst for water from the hills and the water tankers, their ephemeral voices tearing the quiet of a morning walk.


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