Where we lay

On a downward slant,
or an upward tilt,
I traverse this plain horizontally.

The grass looks soft from a distance,
but rocks and sharp sticks protrude up close.

Birds chorus through,
crows sombrely name a place that the kookas laugh at.

While the littler birds have a field day,
in every tree.

Soft mould like grass is my feets refuge.
I step on an ant hill and leap and brush.

Another call in the distance,
I wonder how many people actually come out here.

I haven’t seen a hill
I haven’t seen a soul.

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