I walk down by the field. It's edged in summer's stalks that are now bereft of leaves, Brittle and brown, their lonely, tiny bodies send splintered fingers reaching toward the roll of clouds. They have been hollowed by autumn's winds, and under my own worn fingers they break with the tiniest of touches. There are birds still left in this place. Dancing amongst the remains, they leave no broken trace, as they pluck red jewels that are set in drifts amongst the hedgerow. Now they dance near me, red breasts and berries gleeful against a white sky, singing their love into the silence.