There is no cover to speak of
So one cannot help but
break horizons....
This hour-glass of grassland runs
through circles of these optic nerves
to impotent obscurity.

There!...
Three fields out and dangling
in a filigree of  lark song...
Lapwings!
Gust-waft synods of ruffled vicars
from Heaven's addled cashmere, asking
"Did we?..No, we didn't...did we? "