A Primitive Concept of a Collection

When I’m doing next to nothing,
Somewhere near to nowhere’s middle,

And I can’t hear human noises—
Or just rarely, fairly distant—

Then everything feels actual,
Reality feels actually

Real, most nearly, and I’m at peace.
Can’t say why this is, exactly—

Wouldn’t ever claim it’s better
Than another way of being

Alive and nonetheless at peace—
It works, in my experience,

The slow hours, the changing light, flies,
Birds, occasional grasshoppers,

The deer moving through the shadows—
Or also no creatures at all,

Not that I sense, just the breezes,
Next to nothing to do with me.