It is often late in a day that
                       dreams of the previous night
come out of the bushes, just as
                       one has arrived at the end of
a drill, stopped to roll a cigarette,
      and looked up at the crows in wonder
at what keeps them so indelible,
                 despite all the rain we're getting.

'Tis the same with inspiration,
                  it appears out of the ether just as
you'd be least expecting it, almost
            like the first growth of spring, when
all the conditions are right for
               germination of seeds which speed
write vertically on lateral trellises.

This is why we must learn to
        recite from memory because out in the
field there is no sand to record those
     nutrients of thought.  But, if you lie back,
and try to find a patch of blue between
                     pages of white cloud to quickly
dip your imagination in before
                          our westerlies close them up,
you can document a vision.