A single moth on the road, pale and still, a perfect triangular fold. There is no such thing as wingless. Or cold.
Near the brook - plashing in darkness - something scuttles the underbrush. Against stars, the slope of the hill appears to undulate. Soon enough she'll have something to say.
The afternoon passed between blueberry bushes and a lame but cheerful enough horse. We fried bacon and talked about the pig, who earlier in Spring we'd fed apples and potato peels. Who goes without wings merely refuses to see that even choice is an illusion.
Well, work. Muddy lawn chairs after so much rain. Even my famous gourd plants are stunted and unsure.
It's okay or it will be. Fran invites me over to look at his oxen and I chide him about his obsession with Chianina and later we laugh at how neither one of us can drink beer anymore. Only the wingless have need of skies.
Coming back before sunrise is always a happiness. The first cup of coffee is best, and settling in to write, this.
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