While the purple martin
Sings his dawn song
The bush crickets
With their scraping chirps
Form a washboard percussion
Beneath an orchestra
Of crinkling goosefoot.

It is not the sobriety of
This great Weald
And the stately occlusal
Of her tall trees
That crowds your soul.

But the ordinariness
Of the things beneath it
That make you want
To find your own voice.