The green man

The green man strode across the fields and the morning followed.

The tardiest night things were shuffling home and the songbirds beginning to stir. The green man squinted to make out a church clock some twenty miles away. The village slumbered in the crook of a valley, and if he focused his ears (the size of umbrellas) on its direction, he could detect the creakings and small murmurations that gave the lie to that other sleep, the longer, colder sleep he knew too well.

But for now there was only the green man and the morning, snuffling at his heels.

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