| No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion | |
| Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, | |
| Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion. - G. M. Hopkins |
The heavy smell of sunwarmed dirt, the quick gust of a flighty breeze, and the warm touch of sunlight...could this day be more perfect?
pics from here
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