Beat of the pheasants wings brings their vibrations physicality to glass
It is all that stands between human warmth and the strut of winged courtship
The clocks tick tock, yet the alarm stays silent
Once again I have woken before the time to wake
To peer across the flat frosted grass, to look out, over the stream to the woodlands
Banks of trees that rise in an instant in a vast array of greens
And golds, browns, yellows and reds; and then, the wisp of eastern silver birch
For all that are chosen to stand erect, in search of the photosynthetic energy of light
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