The new grass rising in the hills，

    the cows loitering in the morning chill，

    a dozen or more old browns hidden

    in the shadows of the cottonwoods

    beside the streambed. I go higher

    to where the road gives up and there's

    only a faint path strewn with lupine

    between the mountain oaks. I don't

    ask myself what I'm looking for.

    I didn't come for answers

    to a place like this， I came to walk

    on the earth， still cold， still silent.

    Still ungiving， I've said to myself，

    although it greets me with last year's

    dead thistles and this year's

    hard spines¹， early blooming

    wild onions， the curling remains²

    of spider's cloth. What did I bring

    to the dance？ In my back pocket

    a crushed letter from a woman

    I've never met bearing bad news

    I can do nothing about. So I wander

    these woods half sightless while

    a west wind picks up in the trees

    clustered above. The pines make

    a music like no other， rising and

    falling like a distant surf at night

    that calms the darkness before

    first light. "Soughing" we call it， from

    Old English， no less. How weightless

    words are when nothing will do.