It is like the future and past of us meeting above and below us, our something in the way Here, the field and you in it moving as cry, as shall run, as my hand pulling at the stars,Īnd the stars obeying-the grass and the dark and the world not always endingĪnd the smoke rising from the field is the angel we burn into the snow. Trying to hold the field in its body of snow, trying to hold winter up to your eyesīefore it withers and the deer returns over the shoulder of a hunter or the road Past the death of its dying, which is past animal. Still in the field unable to relinquish the snow, which is the voice of the land Which is how I’ve come to think of happiness, a bowing in a field, mouth to the field,Īnd everywhere that is not black, white, and everywhere an animalĭrifting away into the bare thicket such that it becomes the thicketĪnd the field permitting its end which we touch, though not an end-end because we are Over the moon, which is the smoke over our mouths which we gladly takeĪs the voice of the deer, which is the voice of winter and the field for which we are,įor once, in, not as deathbed, cudgel, or cage but asįield, and so land and so thought moving as a deer across the evenness of evening bowing to night Not out of a killing hunger but out of hunger to be led by anotherĪnimal, out into the drifts and gold of drifting, listening to the houses and rooms, and the smoke
The ambling mule deer which we follow, the common thought between us,
This is the common air that bathes the globe.Ĭrash, or brash binding rope to hold up, down, or from but merely to hold This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me,
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