Under the widest sky,
Where five valleys meet,
He is walking to the ruined house,
Where he will sleep,
His cold chest pressed into the hard earth,
All he owns, tangled in his heart,
Like a crop that needs each season,
He accepts,
He hears the land, the stories of the fields,
Soft spoken, hard bitten,
He is practised in weather,
Fine tuned to the moon.
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