it is quiet beneath the breeze.

I was laying down on a etch-a-sketch of grass. The Autumn deepens and the field abounds with ages red and brown. Because the grasses are sleeping they no longer right themselves after being trampled. So they give us a glimpse into the secret lives of us field animals -- where we meet up at the creek, where we go out to have a drink, and where we lie down to have some sleep. Like iron filings describing lines of magnetism. The direction of the pressed grass reveals the angles of travel to the orientation of our supine.

the words of mindless motor fixed action patterns

Our usual invisible rabbit warrens marked by bent blades. Today the field remembers every passage. The abandoned railway is a highway full of coyotes. A scat of dotted trails in favour of your cover. The wet gullies on either side of the track meant for new lumber. Like the rabbits, if you approach too close, they’ll thump this dirt into rapid staccato bursts. They are issuing a warning to us and simultaneously sounding a retreat for their mates.We are all animals composed largely of symptoms. We are seldom seen just as a shadow slipping beneath the surface of the creek. You’ll hear them thump and splash. You’ll hear them come and crash. Your teeth-marks stump.In a shallow dale we see a dormitory, half a dozen side by side. Pockets of flat grass pushed into rounded depressions by mamalian nestling. In the nearby lee of old tree is a mud terrace by the river. It is a place to congregate, with every gnarled old frame. You can see why we choose it.The birds are gone. They have flown south and it is quiet beneath the breeze.