The forest smells again.
It raise the hovering larks
up with the sky heavy on our shoulders;
though one still saw through the branches the day when he was empty,
but after long, raining afternoons
the golds come sunning
newer hours,
in front of those fleeing at far house fronts
all the sore windows scary with wings beat.
Then it gets quiet. Even the rain is quieter
over the stones quietly darkening shine.
All sounds crouch completely
in the shiny buds of the Reiser.