Issue 28, Summer-Fall 1962
On the farm this had been the hour
Persimmon leaves rang like iron
Or the sound of a screendoor slamming
Flung itself for two long miles up the hill
Beyond turnstiles, past the laggard cows
To the ear’s target where the boy wandered,
Tapping his fresh stick along the path.
Or perhaps the old man's shout caught him
In a beaver brook, where long grasses combed
The mud. Deer too indulged the sliding belly,
Endured chill blessings of the sly and beaver priests
Who raised the waters high over an eager back.