Fresh cow pat – that smell you cannot but breathe for its strangely homegrown worth alone
Torn leaves dance distantly upon winter sycamore trees – where the air will treat it entirely like waif – thin paper to cutthroat fire
A farmer’s unwinding eyes, adoringly concentrated aside these hay bails – golder than the lonesome sun which hangs and lurches on the most lucrative thread known, reeling itself in
Adieu, good evening
Rabbits and hares laid wet ‘n’ bare, immediately by the grass-infested stone boulder – blood puddles transforming themselves to a suddenly colour-infused river
As every evening the scene is set again, and he leaves it with a whisper sent in toward the impending dark – he looks mightliy forward to being back

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