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Unnamed Fragment (unfinished)

Across the quiet meadow comes the sound of tinkling bells
Where the cows are plodding home
And wander through the swaying swells
Of hay gone golden in the sun
So bright that all the colors run.

The darkling sky goes blue to black
But rimmed with ruddy fire bright
Off to the west, the distant west
Where sun last slipped away from sight.

Robert G. Brown 2005-12-14