A LOVELY WHILING AWAY

Turning circles
and pocketing stones,
we were more astonished
than we had ever been
by the sweet leaves,
and dry golden corn,
and the flowers
offering up their seeds –
and the white horse,
standing motionless,
in the stark pasture,
a hawk’s reflection
appearing in his big old eye –
their precious spirits
merging interminably.


In the wind, we heard
the weeping and laughter
of the fiddles and banjos,
harmonicas and mandolins,
and we danced along
for a little while in the grass,
under yellow gingko leaves,
eating wild grapes and
hard, sweet apples.
Toward home, at dusk,
there was only the
low hum of our voices -
the intimate press of our hands.