Bullock heads stoop in the field, take breakfast on a slope.
Rolls of bumped fields, crumpled in places like coverlets: at any moment the incumbent could throw them off and rise.
Crow holds his branch tight with piercing claws: feathers blown, eyes sharp.
No ancient gargantuan stirs today.
Only leaves that catch the wind and curl branches into dervish shapes; only crow on the wing, only strolling cattle.
Tarmac lanes are wet grey, reflective of the sky.
Towards the town the wider roads fill; the inch and spill of morning traffic, pent concerns of the late, sleepy grumble, a glint of excitement; for the most part, stiff and slow.