Calf & hare

Moon-Clarabelle against an oak: she squirts her shiny sack to the late lime stubble, sunshot with September.

I hook my chin up on the gate two bright hours long stockstill and stare while little Angus wonders well what walking is and how to take the air.

Then Hadley Hare in madmaid’s frolic shoots sideways out of a hedge and off across the wimbling wideness.

Once she stops to measure where her sprinting space will find the finish-line of safer thorn.

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