Farm sweet collective crop tones broach known maturation, loaning odyssey to static fields. Their painting turns relaxing frost. Sprawled hills seam the lake, salt-free, and sky. The clouds protect these unison long spans of line.
A fiddle tune if lost shows in the foreground with swing chain needing grease. What comfort to move forth and back beneath a singular momentum tracing past.
The evening will arrive, as eyelids fall. Informal mercy stalls the pace of daylight's drawing toward the morning of another name.
Fireflies wink away from everything below the level of an eye. A sliver moon chalks evidence mid-sky of recollected light's available wild tithing, promised as the soul arranges to remove known poverty mid-depth.