Writing

The fields are open. The animals know where to go.
they graze all day opposite my window
they grunt and groan and lay silent
they do exactly what you are doing. The animals graze during the winter sun,
along the wide centre of yokes turned into swans
and then they drift to the far east corner behind my home
when the evening comes. They tell me what time of day
it is, whilst I work at my desk, back in the landscape
of my home.
The hills are drunk again.
The night screams with a sweat that feels like life.

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