According to Brueghel, when Icarus fell it was spring. A farmer was ploughing his field. The whole pageantry of the year was awake, tingling, near the edge of the sea, concerned with itself, sweating in the sun that melted the wings’ wax. Unsignificantly off the coast there was a splash, quite unnoticed; this was Icarus drowning.
So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens.
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox, and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me. They were delicious, so sweet and so cold.
A stand of people by an open grave underneath the heavy leaves celebrates the cut and fill for the new road, where a man on his knees reaps a basketful of matted grasses for his goats.
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set match it it in the back yard. Those fleas that escaped earth and fire died by the cold.