Driving leisurely on the back roads of a pastoral community the sights and sounds of spring come alive.
Landscapes roll before me, Like carpets of a king; Lush and green the towering wood, the verdant hills, The robin's song, all prophets of the spring. Pastures sweep and dip and spill into a babbling brook; Where mellow cattle graze and nod, How nonchalant they look. March 24, 2017
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