In this room, there is always a fly trying to leave.
It never quite makes it.
It buzzes angily off and on against the glass pane.

Through the window July treetops are a green forgetting of other seasons. Winter is a dream, shrouded in leafy abundance. Spring is a thought of Summer before it came.

On an island in Denmark, you drink white wine.
You are mellow and tipsy, you say.
Hares play in front of you in a field,
They rarely think of leaving
or playing a better game.