I spend my days at the farmhouse. Always the sound of cows; at night, the dreams of cows. Their paths through the grass, the
From Paris to Madrid is a winding coil of train tracks and engines, the much machineried world etched into hillside and valley. Subway clatter
I Under the lindens, a boy. Beside the graveled walk, a girl. He watches her— this is as it has always been. She cracks