What can I say about the morning, the light that grows between the streaks of rain, the bare earth showing dark between dry stalks, the bleached brown hue that hangs in cloud and bathes the fields, the dusty, tired feel despite the cool?
There is no time to soak dry eyes on this soft scene, because the sun will soon be back, the chiff-chaffs say, (song speeding as the blue appears), because the damp will dry, and we will walk on toast crumbs.
Only the feral cats on silent feet will stalk the naked meadow, among sprung grasshoppers and quick, shadowy voles— needs must.
We sink back into torpor, prepare to close the shutters tight.
(A deer gallops into the meadow; russet force treading the misty white and yellow, hidden from sight where the willows and dogwoods grow rooted in frog water. Another minute, head turned in distraction, and I would never have known. These presences occupiers of this space where we walk, grim-footed with our measures and fence posts, quiver between the seen and unseen of this interlude).