Not one swallow does a summer make.
Yet the last cuckoo of spring is calling.
Hay is cut.
Bailed.
The river beckons.
Again.
The sun scolds, the trees gasp, dust rises around the old man walking on the track.
He should have left at the break of day, instead the day breaks him .
He lies down in the grass and watches the insects scurrying to the shade.
He closes his eyes.
And sleeps.
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