Between the woods and broken wall I sit,
Atop the rainwashed stump and mossy earth.
Nothing contemplated but the sun and yellowed leaves,
Windows of existentialism floating
Through my eyes like wind.

Look to that greeny canopy;
A lonely goldfinch sings at dawn,
With all its tiny feathers ruffled by a midnight owl
Pursuing food and death and filtered moonlight.
Seven simple sparrows sit atop a gleaming birch;
None can hear their songs but I,
And nothing but the gentle babble of this tumbling brook
Can carry their tunes away.

This lonely road I walk talks of death, of half-life,
Of the softest stolen whisperings of those dawny sparrows
In the hazy heat of noon.
And then in the ochre fall of dusk,
When all but I are sleeping,
A wandering fox darts deliberately
Through the brackeny brush of night.