He, male guide for this blog, wears his craziness.  It is far to vasty a space to cling only to worried craziness, you know, the interior kind. On a trestle, He is doing what daddy told him not to do; frivolously wandering where other men work. No matter that his pride is augmented a bit, considering that daddy also told him to walk the straight and narrow.

Field (another name for labor), it’s high-summer, nature does the work in grainfields; it’s to late to intervene, to early to benefit.  Time for a boy to wander.

Meadow (another name for ball-field), it’s ripe for pondering the good and lovely, retirement to a simple nap, or onto adventures and the dangerous remains inside the still tottering boy. However, to go from field to meadow graciously, he must walk the straight and narrow, just like daddy told him.

Predicaments, the trestle, no shortcuts (plan an escape?). There usually is a slight impediment at the border of any meadow.

Access will hopefully go un-noted, in the legal sense, now that the cows are gone to industrial pasturage and no bulls guard the harem.

 

 

 

 

There is the hope that He will continue towards goodness, proceeding through the meadow; ambling to a rendezvous at the river.

She, the feminine guide, and his pursuit, is presumed at the river.