What rough-handled beak, and silver flies. The insect noise cuts to another realm; Morning creeps with dew, yet day rises according to the fish’s call. Each pond has its heart, wind releases grains, A sudden twist in canopy Catches—all the others, Light sways beneath the sky’s weight. And quiet retreat is beautiful too. We whisper in every scene, where Colors clash and join. And come springs, we meet.
- Lorine Niedecker