The hills are like beggars at the night's eternity.
Wolves gently wake up the edge of the scattered woodland,
follow the movements of sheep like nature intended.
A mother who feels beaten down stands out on her porch,
practices the an of getting up again.
She learns the hard way that owls do not sing.

Shadows grow like cockroaches in spring.
The weather-vane briefly perpetuates its myth of going someplace.
A grandmother breathes just enough to not be buried any day now.
A child indulges himself in a handful of pilfered quarters.
He fights a war against the eat with just a toy soldier at his side.
His sister has designs on her older self, paints her lips and nails awkwardly.
The farmer relaxes in a parlor chair, hypnotized by pipe smoke.
The horse resumes its role as the sole occupant of the dilapidated barn.
Everyone is petrified of something and have learned not to let it show.

There are places in the house where light never reaches,
holes in the wall where field mice lose their virginity over and over.
Miles in every direction are people much the same.
And the moon just celebrated its 4.5 billionth year.
Wind sings "Happy Birthday" but the owls do not.