The Stalwart Machine
A hard wind blew over the grass. Although the sun was shining, a film of cloud in the high atmosphere made the sky chalky white. The scrub-brush hugged the protective curves of gentle hills, hunched bushes with upper branches bleached smooth in testament to the perpetual wind. This same wind waded through the grass, leaving a wake of flowing patterns that writhed and disappeared, only to come to life again elsewhere as the blades bent and turned.