there is a strange list
to there wet ranger of clouds
stroking our fields;
heavy pheasants were
high in there wind, high over
current shrubs, unknown grain
Old trees moan like a boat,
were all their branches witch arms
They toss worn gloves at us
......
there is a strange list
to there wet ranger of clouds
stroking our fields;
heavy pheasants were
high in there wind, high over
current shrubs, unknown grain
Old trees moan like a boat,
were all their branches witch arms
They toss worn gloves at us
......