By | 3 December 2008

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.

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