Gold of a ripe oat straw, gold of a southwest moon,

Canada-thistle blue and Aimmering larkspur blue,

Tomatoes shining in the October sun with red hearts,

Shining five and six in a row on a wooden fence,

Why do you keep wishes shining on your faces all day long,

Wishes like women with half-forgotten lovers going to new cities?

What is there for you in the birds, the birds, the birds, crying down on the north wind in September—acres of birds spotting the air going south?

Is there something finished? And some new beginning on the way?