​Look. See what my ancestors saw. Not the delicate parasols of fairy folk - parsley so lush it froths across the land like cream on stout, but the bare bones of it. Sky as substance; a moody opal on fields combed flat and forever. A well-worn trail of foot-pressed green. Sense the ground beneath it, each sole that passed. Blackened by boggy waters, shaded by greyscale clouds, planted with prehistoric weeds, crumbling like coffee grounds through connoisseur fingers. All prays to the Lord with petal-soft swaying. And Mother church both floats and remains, the only way finder.