The car hummed out the dirt track west
And the sun was low, a ball of orange-pink
Flickering the trees and fields
Peaching soft the level land, painting the sudden somewhere of a house
Stranded in a field, deep in a sea of grass.
And every house was still a story, and in the undug fields
Were books, whole tomes, untouched, unwritten –
Yet I could see their edges, in stray books and bobtailed deer
And in the eyes of those who stopped beside the road
To smile, their faces made of light.