The woods renew their bond with the sky; As I sit under thick boughs, A truth clings to this bark— Nature speaks, existence whispers in twigs, leaves, every rustle and hum. Drawn like tea, until fall. We drift on the path, till results arise.

Grackles murmur on. Thick grass breathes, so live, or do they flutter, say, The mystery, the very green of things? Perhaps it’s in the rhythm of the trees, Rich like the quiet. Or where the birds dip and dive.

• Lorine Niedecker