In a ribbon of milk and pasturage carried with sweet sacred habit,

the keep to the dry hummocks above the spring seeps, reaching for mouthfuls

of raspberry leaves and witch hazel before arriving at the clearing.

Morning fog rises and rises wraithlike, making new hills, new mountain ridges

that burn off leaving this old arable hoof worn hill drenched with dew.

The cows are walking through the forest leaving a trail of crushed

needles before entering the maw of a heavy summer day.