Two or three houses where the blue mountain ends, and a winding track that circles the hill.
Frogs croak in a dried up hole - it’s going to rain. Magpies squawk in the high trees - it’s going to blow.
The willow-lined lane is buried gently in grass.
No one at home; fallen petals cover the brushwood gate.
At ease away from the dusty world - what joy!
Those who sedulously seek the dazzle seem foolish in comparison.
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