A second crop of hay lies cut <br />and turned. Five gleaming crows <br />search and peck between the rows. <br />They make a low, companionable squawk, <br />and like midwives and undertakers <br />possess a weird authority. <br /> <br /> <br />Crickets leap from the stubble, <br />parting before me like the Red Sea. <br />The garden sprawls and spoils. <br /> <br /> <br />Across the lake the campers have learned <br />to water ski. They have, or they haven’t. <br />Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone <br />suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!” <br /> <br /> <br />Cloud shadows rush over drying hay, <br />fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine. <br />The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod <br />brighten the margins of the woods. <br /> <br /> <br />Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts; <br />water, silver-still, and a vee of geese. <br /> <br /> <br />* <br /> <br /> <br />The cicada’s dry monotony breaks <br />over me. The days are bright <br />and free, bright and free. <br /> <br /> <br />Then why did I cry today <br />for an hour, with my whole <br />body, the way babies cry? <br /> <br /> <br />* <br /> <br /> <br />A white, indifferent morning sky, <br />and a crow, hectoring from its nest <br />high in the hemlock, a nest as big <br />as a laundry basket ... <br />In my childhood <br />I stood under a dripping oak, <br />while autumnal fog eddied around my feet, <br />waiting for the school bus <br />with a dread that took my breath away. <br /> <br /> <br />The damp dirt road gave off <br />this same complex organic scent. <br /> <br /> <br />I had the new books—words, numbers, <br />and operations with numbers I did not <br />comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled <br />by use, in a blue canvas satchel <br />with red leather straps. <br /> <br /> <br />Spruce, inadequate, and alien <br />I stood at the side of the road. <br />It was the only life I had.<br /><br />Jane Kenyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/three-songs-at-the-end-of-summer/
