Through this loop, Olympus Mons red.
I am reaching hand over foot, a toddler on stairs.
It is waxing, ever waxing
I can see all silhouettes of revolving satellites…All-natural carnivorous melodic tunings in the leaves.

It came slowly. Now the waves are growing. They are pulled by that invisible gravitational tug. I’ve a brown bag filled with liquid status quo. It has been lunch for many days.

Winds are seemingly bringing in a calm February.
February not calm, calm winds. Not removing any heavy heat, but suggesting change.
Here, now, breath is a protest. It is all-cumulative.
It will no doubt overfill the container, sending over-worked bodies into the soothing rain-water filled rivers and streams that are dodging the larger rocks, caressing those lesser in size.

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