It's too dark to see the pigs but I walk that far anyway. Who mowed here last or my feet only remembering the sea? Clouds move quickly south, somewhat like the river, silent. Reference points matter, of which I is one.
In what way are bees related to romance? The camera delivers yellow in a permanent way, or so one argues on the drive home without actually saying it. Farms are not coming and going but going but farming is not going. You listen for the wind that moves them because it is a way of orienting.
Disorienting? The way we write it matters though generally differently than we first thought. My wife doesn't read what I write, which as time passes, matters more. Or maybe I incline to darkening, dramatically.
Subtly inclined! But also bearing cameras through felty fields in order to remember. We are always touching eternity, which is the essence of wanting more. I desire you see?
You kneel. Thou art what poem uttered what way and by whom? They grunt a little in their plastic cave faintly visible in moisty dark and briefly I ponder liberating them. You aren't mine either.