a lone plow moves across a greying field an old ox pulls across it’s burden the farmer moves across the fat field his shoes etching into it’s belly of dirt and the world of his eyes, filled by the ox’s ass
the shepherd leads his flock under the scissors and under the knife in the rising of the sun a lone, trembling mark
above, the drunk indigo shimmers down, the sea wrinkles here, it dances carelessly with a shimmering wave a white feather with a drop of wax
across, the ship's sail rustles the mast-head rises to the sun one who knows the lift doesn’t think about the fall
the shepherd sings softly the sheep croak they’re response the sails clap the ox grunts the trees whistle, as they grow to the sun the rivers groan, as they flow to the sea
a bird lands on a branch takes the world through his eyes and flies since he didn’t understand above, the burnt ember rises down, the sea shivers here, it vanishes with a shimmering wave a white feather