by Larry Levis

    The trees went up the hill

    And over it.

    Then the dry grasses of the pasture were

    Only a kind of blonde light

    Settling everywhere

    And framing the randomly¹ strewn

    Outcropping of gray stone

    That anchored them to soil.

    Who were they？

    One in the picture， & one not， & both

    Scotch-Irish drifters，

    With nothing in common but a perfect contempt

    for a past；

    Ancestors of stumps² & fallen trees & . . . .

    One sits on a sorrel mare³，

    Idly tossing small stones at the rump

    of a steer⁴

    That goes on grazing at tough rosettes

    of pasture grass & switching its tail

    In what is not yet irritation⁵.

    What I like， what I

    Have always liked， is the way he tosses each small

    Stone without thinking， without

    A thought for anything， not aiming at all，

    The easy， arcing forearm nonchalance⁶

    Like someone fly casting，

    For this is what

    He wanted：

    To be among the stones， the grasses，

    Savoring⁷ a stony⁸ self

    That reminded him of no one else，

    And on land where that poacher， Law，

    Had not yet stolen through his fences，

    The horse beneath him tensing

    Its withers⁹ lightly to keep

    The summer flies away，

    And the woman in the flower-print dress hemmed¹⁰

    With stains

    A half mile off

    Is the authoress of no more than smoke rising，

    Her sole diary & only publication，

    From a distant chimney.

    They have perhaps a year or two

    Left of this

    Before history begins to edit them into

    Something without smoke or flies， something

    Beyond all recognition.

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