Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me
Relieved, I let the book fall behind a stone. I climb a slight rise of grass. I do not want to disturb the ants Who are walking single file up the fence post, Carrying small white petals, Casting shadows so frail that I can see through them. I close my eyes for a moment and listen. The old grasshoppers Are tired, they leap heavily now, Their thighs are burdened. I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make. Then lovely, far off, a dark cricket begins In the maple trees.