Escapism

There is a large field in the end.
The lingering afternoon ambiance of a honeycomb.
Long amber grains swaying on a fish-hook of wind.
You know,
the kinds that grow right up to you.
Velvety tips of seeds running back and forth on your palms
when you place them towards the ground.
Your fingers playing apart.

A large oak tree stands at the top of the hill regally, a dusty bicycle resting at its base.

For miles and miles there is the absence of clouds.
Just a great
welcoming blue.

Oh the eternal brilliance of it!

What a task it will be when the thunderstorms of rank & file reflection haunt me no more.