The Unreasoning Goes

It is evening. It will always be evening when not night. She emerges at the fringe of the pastures and sets forward across them. Slowly with fluttering step as if wanting mass. Suddenly still and as suddenly on her way again. At this rate it will be black night before she reaches homehome. So itself belies. Then glutted then torpid under its lid makes way for unreason. As hope expires of her ever reappearing she reappears.