Over the Fence

I slept out in the field under the oak.
The rain was soft. I'd climbed the fence
just off the road. One light through the mist
from a shed across the field.
In California it was rush hour, all traffic
stopped in stinking heat. But I was there
in Wales in the night hours, grinning like
a fool. Still praising the great world.
At home in the fields of the Lord.

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