Below Owlpen

A whole goddamn ode of slightly humorous trapezoid oak crowns, a
brown blown on its own song song thrush, up there is no wind there
but oiled and smooth gates swing hugely round and down here. Town-
less hill and also free of showers. Rook-towns. Things quantified
in terms of clumps and patches, patterns are panels edged by hedges
and loud and unloud brooks are the lines that make up grids – land
is a map of a map. An unmown circle and a hole where water climbs up
out of the hill’s sump on its own back, and sap, and no plough. Black-
birds – in the knot and curl where two sides of the valley meet – leave
the fern, the bird becomes the border and the sound snatches, bumps
itself into a song rising into the funny trees, that don’t stare and don’t
hear but have not yet fallen down.