Near as full as a human torso

This buzzard grips Fife in talons

So tightly on the rotten wood post

This metal box of a car is weak

Nonchalantly in preconscious mode

The marsh before him has gossamer

Spun and fairy wrought mist above it

There will be carrion to hunt later

On the edges of their roads and being

Yet in this time in

The constant wind and rain even

A favourite tree makes no recompense.

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