Entrenched the weary brow,
Carves out a purchase on the face,
Striving for the coattails of a whisper,
Forgone rumourings and webs,
Less descending on the truth,
In rugged valor that drives mud to make a bed under each nail.

I see a dog in the distance,
Turning mirrors into cascading sheets,
That fall and splatter on the muddy grass,
At once from the depth roiled,
These mirrors in the muddy grass,
Hold smokey geometry below the line,
And dash their muddy pictures on the image of the trees.

Talking to a hurried face,
Too many times passed and not held in conversation,
Now they talk,
Opening up about their passion,
Cracking the frozen surface on their interesting thoughts,
They too have many stories to tell,
And he loves them dearly.