Photo by Tom Fisk
Its sweet move through the country was one that offered little time for rest/ and if it did for too long the plains would wilt and show a lesser side of life. But its work was its recreation, and it loved to play. It couldn’t bear standing still for too long. Even when we tried it would just capture as much as it could, as quickly, until it was back to its normal tune/ practically packing before making its way to another country side.
If memories were its source, it would seem to take deeply the good ones and find somehow to remain steady trough the bad ones. When the load of its work increase, no longer remaining routine, it labors and seeps into the land, saturating it heavily to spare any tight refusal to withdraw.
It hides its drought so poorly, slowing to vacancy and meagerly tasting what it can to sustain/ giving way for the occupants that can’t do without/ and when there is nothing, it hears everything, bringing a more quiet desire than loneliness/ to take in another sweeter than its own.