The field is long enough to disappear
into the distance reaching the illusion of
the horizon, a golden hue
the sunlight paints the reeds
and hay wound tightly
is scattered across the land
one after the other
a splintered beam hangs off
the broken wooden fence in
need of mending
or the gentle strokes
of fresh paint
plowing through the thicket
feet stomping down footprints
in the soft upturned soil
heaving breath shooting out
under the pressure
move faster
all fall down in the fields
a chameleon's head turned
towards the heavens
eyes closing now
with another head
resting against
a chest
flying together towards the constellations
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