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A long lazy string of hot air balloons,
straddling the swirling thermals.
Above the silvery, snake of the Rio Grande,
where the plaintive eagle calls,
Drifting, nudged along by an unseen hand.
Aloft on low southerly and high northerly winds,
when clear skies make the mornings cold.
Gazing down on Albuquerque’s human ants,
across seasoned aspens turned to gold,
countless coloured balloons bob and dance.
