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A gray sheet of fog rolls down the hill.
It has no path, a gypsy of chance.
Wandering through skinny boned trees,
Skimming and rolling on scarred knees.
Gray sheets of velvet curl around me
Whispering a song of sweet mystery.
I look around and feel a cold chill.
The gypsy is traveling by free will.
Rain is coming, I can tell.
A gypsy does not travel alone.
The hairs on my arms stand to greet
Raindrops too cold to be discrete.
But then it's too cold to stand and muse.
It's exhausting to fight the shivering.
So I turn in the fog and wander away-
The gypsy sings and the voice soon decays.