Farm land. September.

Borage blue stars, ox blood dockan seeds. Nettles as tall as they will get flank the oat field. Cabbage seas peak and crest the rise to the north, steely, cold. In the copse, ash trees jostle with tall pines. Leaves clatter through the canopy like coins in a penny pusher arcade game at the fair. One more tuppence……. Something stirs a large flock of seagulls in a fallow field, westward. They rise screeching, whirling, waltzering. They circle and settle once more.

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