Through your window, the puffed up clouds

And sun drizzled fields are beckoning poetic verse to be written. 

Behind you, a gentle scratching sound distracts

But you don't turn. 

It's probably that sneaky, little dormouse that sometimes visits

Yes, that's what it'll be

And yet...

...Is something staring?

Something glaring?

Slyly peeping

Slowly ...

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