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My window looks out over the park, and every year I move another story up so now I'm almost close enough the roof of the sky to touch it.

I could even move the clouds aside, but no clouds come, if they did I'd welcome them 'cause I have very few visitors here anymore.

There must be a highway somewhere, roads I've missed, something more than sky out beyond the window.

Words: Rod McKuan.

Photo: my grandfather

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