After all these weeks—contrails, unsettling.

The walks have been transportive,

Harkening, without much effort, to a more pristine time.

White lines cut the blue, it hurts.

It's careless, must we always be so damn careless?

One thing leads to another, progress.

I don't need it, or want it,

Not after this, not after doing without, managing.

But I see a plover drawing me away from her nest.

The pasture is still a little short.

Bessie and Cocoa and Bill-the-bellowing-bull

Stick their heads through the four-strand

Barb wire fence, the grass is always greener.

The grass is always greener, so yeah, contrails

Cut the blue, a wake of progress, contemplation of was, is, will be.