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.
