Uncommon Sight

To see the world, all the good as a child at a seasonal faire counting months in inches grown and inherited faint-colored hairs. All days number three hundred and sixty five so glad they still are.. same as the nights, in eternity of a young life under crackling camp fires and countless unnamed stars. We survivors, a wisened few or perhaps just lucky, know... a year pass's quickly as summer rain where dancing steam of scorched pavement slowly rose. Trade all your old moments by my side if you would, we'll take a daring ride on swift sled tomorrow's eyes never could.