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