Morning fell from the night— forcing the wind to fence itself with long shadows of grass blades. The sun welded them into form— creating small, dark, sharp, crisscrossing opposites of its immense, dense, rightly round, brightly bound storm. Swords swarm and go dormant; involuntarily slashing in brisk flurries and tranquilized forays— and on it hurries, lazes, and plays— making a bloodless battle field of the farm. A friendly exhibition commences without consequences or meaning. But there’s a thrumming of dull leathery clashes summoning a close replicate of beating hearts; whose owners have open faucets for thoughts— swimming behind streams of blind and dimming pools of pupil dots— floating like docks in dreams.

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