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Lying here on the short grass, I am a bowl for sunlight. Silence. A bee. The lip of water over stones. The swish and slap, hollow under the dock....

The cattle who should, according to folklore, be lying down at the approach of rain, stand skeptical in a field of ragged green. The sky, a surging pewter, exhibits...

A shifting net of birds swelling over the pasture, turning, an amoeba, now dark and granular as dying, now an invisible, a thin fluid slicing light.  Folding, the winged black knot...

I I have been considering the ravens, who live without worrying and have no bins or barns And have no reaping machines. Yet they are fed well—their bodies sleek,...