While the Sun Slept

We’ve gone round and round. The sun had returned and so did he, but it was not the fickle sun of March, teasing daffodils in the damp, no, it was the sun of July; brilliant in blisters, and brown skin. It promised more sun to come.
We woke the skies, as the red fired ball succumbed to the moon, which hung on every word we whispered, while the sun slept.

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