Otiosity
A flock of sheep crosses the orchard, mashing golden overripe plums under their hooves. It smells like grandma's old hearth boiling jams. Ahead of me, a convoy of villagers meanders steadily on the horizonless path, waking the ancestral dust from its slumber. Some people complain about the hard times, some say jokes. They know a lot about all things, and next to nothing about the man they follow on the last road, except that he used to roam the hills and wrote poems...
the leaves no longer fall
at the poet's house –
excavators
Lavana Kray
