You stand so far away lake's in the distance, top of bails of hay, breeze dream clouds thick and white, kite, wind against the bow, No matter how far we sail.


Hold back your thought, among silence rhythms are taught, the end of the line, a trout you have caught, flipping and sticking to bits of hay, slipping in skin, reflecting the day, it's only a picture, there's not much to say.