I know this road

and my way to Ales

but driving in this fog

anything could happen

right now the penned

chickens are ranging

the white horse is grazing

in Bagard the hawk

preys from power lines

the sky is dead

the people are cooking

children are annoying

the vines bare skeletal

a stone mas a castle

up on the hill the trees

in spring yellow purple

pink it’s still cold

in Anduze over coffee

pastis white wine beer

a cigarette they think

themselves their time

away the river floods

every year now they

talk themselves to death