Untended, limelit mill-wings weave
glistening skies from soil, while
Evening staggers, having drunk its
weight in stars.
Curious, intent leaves its hiding
place to lap dew. The cool and wet
diffuse and steal his fright, though
Furious wings soon recapitulate his plight.
Infected by some primrose idleness,
the ill-bred bard unsheaths
his blade, intensifies
his gaze, and waits.
The moon unleashes all its white
upon the populace. Purified,
their conversation comes to
rolling fields and ambles.
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