All the good songs come from the men

leaning on staves – watching sheep graze

on a field without fences. So I am told.
In this country they dry hay on this sort

of wooden rack – and in that country

they dry hay on another sort of rack.
The little barefoot girl runs with a switch

through the enclave of pensions for pilgrims

after the eager cluster of early morning goats.
Two cows loll at their ease chewing good cud

viewing the laborious bent humans, grandma

and her daughter's daughter, planting spuds.
Another grandma in black kneeling among

ripe strawberries in the patch that in another

country would be her front lawn. Not a weed.
The cherry orchard slaps the windows of our bus

extravagantly. And how delicious they are, small

and so sweet in a white paper cone, and so cheap.