Field

"flockes were / imeind bi toppes & bi here"

Ok then, ask the crows mobbing the cows,
Sounding nothing like nightingales or owls,

What if our amassing and sundering
Human provisioners are wandering

In every wrong direction from themselves?
There is no space and never was. They fell

Because they couldn't tell what seemed between
Wilderness and that grey heave of the sea,

Between the forest around their gardens
And the dry hills around their fenced-in farms,

Was actually moving only one way,
Time-ward to now, never once changing place,

Never arriving or leaving at all,
Like black to a crow, like soil from the straw,

Just a change, just an exceedingly sweet,
Note-less song from the throats of all who feed

Temporary beasts of various kinds
On the happiness of devouring time,

Neither here nor there, neither brief nor long,
Presently fond of the recently gone.