
In the field where whispers weave, fog blankets the morn,
Trees stand guard, their silhouettes adorned,
A rustic fence, weathered and worn,
Holds secrets of nature, in silence reborn.


In the field where whispers weave, fog blankets the morn,
Trees stand guard, their silhouettes adorned,
A rustic fence, weathered and worn,
Holds secrets of nature, in silence reborn.
