Heavy snowfall in a year gone past hammered the sudden edge of the house foundations to a rounder world a whiter light after the end of day. My favorite coat, lush sable in color, a petty fake that warmed me to the ears hangs after the seasons a beaten animal grinning buttons. It became quite real to me and now is matted on a hook. How far away what mattered has flourished without me, along the tasty road in the wood: clark, clark, the hidden birds call or do wrong, do wrong, someone do wrong, snapping apples from out in the woodside, telling their fathers names, pie cannonrude barkwithfist brendanbe with cherries. It is a vast field where snow will fall again. Is the vast field ownership or a presence of mind?