By Ewen Glass
The clouds are so close. Usually I'm the one full of hot air. We drift over fields, moved by currents and majesty.
I'm not afraid of hyperbole. Here is a green that’s new to me, a bracing sense of horizons; my jesus I am small and immediate.
I’m on week six of a trial involving land rights. Now I float above it all, knowing well that the only person that owns all this is me
right now.
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Main Squeeze Literary Journal 