A choir sings in a field, faces pointed up into the encircling darke night. Each voice is like a dove issuing forth into the star-holed firmament. Entwining the space between the singers and their notes is verdant greenery. The greenery of far-off halls and Christmas pageantry and the greene of midsummer that drips abundantly into glasses wielded by the sun-baked thirsty, lolling good-for-nothings and bored-hearted kyngs. Instruments are stacked along a wall. Woodwynd, brass. Percussive sticks and something stretched over a drum that echoes a woodpecker’s rat-a-tat when hit. A lute. A golde frame flaking with age that holds some Flemish olde master’s painting of Jesus recently and carefully removed from the cross by his followers. His body languishes, a handsome corpse. A candle, a stone floore and stoneworke carved to saye words like “Sacred”, “Death”, “Peace”, “Lyeth”, “Lo!”. A glass hurricane lamp on a darke wooden stick, platinum organ pipes and a marble cherub, fat olde and uglier than a childe would think they should be. Hassocks. Lead on the roof. The choir direct their faces to the moone, which turns each to a silver platter. The trees bend their backs over the singers, from their open torsos spring all the byrds of springe and the wildflowers that are their seasonal supplement. One of the singers holds a stone figure in his hand, a woman with head looking down, arms clasped in prayer her face radiating peace. One of the singers holds the summer, another a handful of evry doubtful thought he’s ever thought. The sign for the singing to end is when the moone finally drops below the yellowing horizon. The byrds quiet too and returne to their trees. The stars disappear down the horn of a trumpet and the earth shakes itself warm and conjures up a new morning.