Sunday morning coming down. We lost. Beat ourselves. Duck season has opened across the river. Can hear the muffled boom of shotguns fired by men. My lover is busy in the kitchen making her fountain of youth breakfast, which is unnecessary; she is stately and gorgeous. I listen to a piano play softly while the burning incense carries the last of my prayers to Father. It is a soft Sunday morning made for an old soul needing a bit of rest and worship. Sunday morning coming down.
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