New hay cut curved rows

of light and shadow.

I’ve disturbed young foxes picking through the plenty.

We stare at each other

As I write he becomes at ease and trots his way

out of sight.

A ginger scribble and a flash of white

Magpies pick at the mounded fresh stems

Drying juices, marzipan, sweet wood cinnamon sugared vanilla

from a plain old grassy meadow

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