Something hopeful is about to happen,
the shepherd informed. The last train

The animals were captivated.
We want the soil, they said.

Now life shall flow around me, colorful,
sensitive, unmeaning. This emptiness

My grandfather told me I
was one of the oldest living creatures.

That old scene—monkey see and monkey do—
is done. That organizing grind, the grid,
is barred. Guerilla movements must exclude

Mornings like this—no drift
         to the canoe, no bass
at the lure—the shiver-calls of loons

Everything’s a couple sizes bigger: a sky
Cutting deep into the streets, hydrants
As hefty as the heads of oxen, the country’s flag

The dry, black branches of winter seen in flight
run singing. Come here to drink
translucent drops on fresh leaves.
Come over here, and try to light that wick.