In the meadow,

I can see angels,

dancing on your big ears,

they are polishing their bugles,

tightening their strings,

gathering twigs for their evening fires.

They sang and danced all night,

and threw you awful dead things to eat,

you sang and danced with them,

you raced them across the meadow,

and back,

running and leaping until your tongue

dragged off the ground,

their wings faster than even your legs,

their sweet, soft voices excited you,

summoned you,

to this nourishing and sacred place

of the tall grasses, serenaded

by the angels their cousins,

run and run, sweet thing,

until you meet your destiny,

running towards you,

from the other side,

of the meadow.