Not quite the South of France

 

The dry grass smells like the South of France and the crickets sound like the South of France. As the sailboat rides out into the fading light it even looks like the South of France.

May hair is dancing in the wind, tickling my nose. It doesn’t bother me much as my thoughts continue to flow onto the moonlit paper. From time to time I hear a gentle ripple of the water rolling onto the shore. For a moment I forget the missing saltwater taste in the air and am back at the Cote d’Azur.

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~ by spasmicallyperfect on July 13, 2005.

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