Carefully placed ingredients, in clear visioned forms. A small portion of nature, never touched by a storm. A spritzing pre seal, ecosystem appeals, self sustaining, space waning, never feigning the real.

What can run but never walk, have a mouth but never talk, have a head that never weeps, and a bed that never sleeps?

A living line of green I stand, Between two plots of careful land. I block the view, but not the breeze, Shaped by hands and buzzing bees. What am I?

It begins a race, Or stops a game A bird's call for a mate, Or a human's, on the sidewalk

Grandmothers fear me, shepherds curse my cry, In countless tales my shadow passes by. I speak without words to the silver-lit sky, my voice riding the hills as echoes reply.