Los Gallos, Los Ojos

The shrieks of the ghost jar the mountainside from its slumber.
Feathered and soulless they fear the rays of sunlight will burn the eyes from their skulls.
Though they have no issue clawing at each other’s, it is in blindness they cannot reside.

But despite it all lines of crimson, lilac and gold stream sideways from the enormous anvil before me, depositing beauty in the morning sky.

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