"Ground fog curling through the violets...; moles,
Or somethings, live under the barn...; in the flower
Bed, beaver trails? Teach me my way, bird calls...;
Ringing from down in the village...; is the water
Leaving secrets? On the porch it taps messages...;
In the dialogue my eyes have with the fragrant
Clouds, I hear the fields stretch towards their edges...;
Did hornets live in the eaves? I forget,
But I'm sure of the fat spiders near the back steps...;
One sips the evening here like a light sauterne...;
You see so much at the Universe's end; sunsets
Shift on various ridges of its mountain...;
Its night's first shadow embraces its sun...; it seems
Like the last slow dance at a prom for prisms..."