I am in mind for fragments today. Old ideas, like the stubble of mowed grass, desiccated, treaded on everywhere, mostly by wind, but still barbed enough to make thin skins bleed. And new ideas, like the tender tufts of Queen Anne’s Lace sprouting from where its ancestors did the same a season or so ago. The bench, angled just so, but somehow still out of place. The mountain, a smoky blue, as if it had no substance. The cackle of crows, impossible to reproduce here, but so edgy as they rend the peace the picture of wide horizons would suggest.