Undocumented vast this windy afternoon, These trees take on a little lean the more, My friendly paths grow peaceable anew, And swift the run of country hills into a shade arbor.
A land of pastel bricks and verdant green, The streets are wash with nonchalance, Roads which seem so sparse and somehow thin, From birdlike view like scalpels cut: So roman through the hills and plains.
Painted in a weaving blue that stretches into darker seams, Laced in threads of light that march across its face, The deep expands to sit upon my sight, It's heavy now to scarcely see its breadth.