2005-09-28 - 3:33 p.m.
Plaint
The swallows have already gone; it seems
early this year. Though these mornings bring
fog in the valley, or settled about,
the sun when it comes is warm as ever.
I mow, watching a warming wind canting
a new Monarch across the nearest field.
The dogs dig in the asparagus—though
who knows for what?—their two tails flagging
enthusiasm, enthusiasm
unflagging. Quiet comes early, as dark.
I listen to crickets, remembering
the cast of the heron’s shadow across
my words this morning. And though I listen,
I hear what I want: A poetry
of common allusion. And why shouldn’t I?
