Looking At Love

On the barn floor lies spilled grain. Hens claw patterns, never stopping to admire the artwork emerging from the dirt. Over the stile, her hair down to her waist, a girl laughs into the autumn leaves. His eyes, honey-warm and her black ones melt into a rain. Then they fade from the stage. The corner stones go first, then the stile, her hair, their bodies and all the leaves. Finally two pairs of eyes float around in a suspended moment before being swept away into the machine that grinds Time. "Do you still see them, Black-Eye? They see you through the little ones that come to braid your tail, brush your mane and feed you sugar cubes. Did those eyes take with all the love with them or leave them on a canvas bigger than what a lone eye can perceive on a quiet afternoon?"