The winds curve the trees here,

Oxidizing in the decades of rust

coppery branches sprawl,

Climbing clouds heavy and grey

carry rain somewhere else,

With hands in the soil and

the standing horizons of sarcen,

The land demonstrating its worth

as a part of a language,

The earth to be aware of itself

ploughing through time and history,

The buzzard boosting its wings

drenching its feathers in air,

Where tight rays of light print shadows

across the ancient field,

The land as seen from the eyes of the cloud.