Childone with the sunin trackless fieldsof yellow grass and thistle, scentof humid heavy air and the wing musicof bees and flies.
Child, slendernakedness to itself unknown,true colour of the lightdispersed invisiblyor glowing around the black hullsof distant thunderheads, aroundthe grasshopper's countenance,solemn, vigilant and wise.
Green apples, poured fullof density, of crispness, float unmovedunder leaves on the slope. Brownfallen apples nestin secret whorls of grass. The apple tree:alone in so much space. And belowin the woods by the watera sweet dead branchcracks lightlyin the shadow in the wind.
But here is an old trackthrough the grass head-highto a child: whomade it? They must havepassed and passed by this one tree,by the abandoned, tireless carwhere rabbits peer out, and the circleof black embers,cans, springs, skeletonsof furniture. They toopassed here many timeson their way from the street's endto the oaks that screenthe river. Therethe sun is nesting now, nightrises with pale flutteringsof white wings from rootsof plants and the black water.
