Sitting Underneath My Oak
J
Juan Olivarez
0
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Sitting underneath my oak,
I see an anole on a limb.
Puffing out his orange throat,
Nothing matters much to him.
One minute he's brown, the next he's green,
It seems he can't make up his mind.
If he's the right color he can't be seen,
He can be really hard to find.
So no surprise, he's gone again,
Just up and vanished in the tree.
He doesn't need much of a brain,
To disappear from folks like me.
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