The life of the world depends on that he is

Alive, on that people are alive, on that

There is village and village of them, without regard

To that be-misted one and apart from her.

Did we expect to live in other lives?

We grew used so soon, too soon, to earth itself,

As an element; to the sky, as an element.

People might share but were never an element,

Like earth and sky. Then he became nothing else

And they were nothing else. It was late in the year.

The wild ducks were enveloped. The weather was cold.

Yet, under the migrations to solitude,

There remained the smoke of the villages. Their fire

Was central in distances the wild ducks could

Not span, without any weather at all, except

The weather of other lives, from which there could

Be no migrating. It was that they were there

That held the distances off: the villages

Held off the final, fatal distances,

Between us and the place in which we stood.