Not Long Before Sunset
Iíll not arise and go now
to the Lake Isle of Somewhere Else
because Iím perfectly happy just where I am,
sitting here free of wattles and clay
on a prediluvian stump in the shade
of many cedars, no call for camouflage,
bovines as if curious cousins
grazing the bunchgrass.
Itís mid-May, windless and warm, not long before sunset,
and Iím here for the moment alone,
unable to detect a cricket from a linnet,
an ignorance that extrapolated from sufficiently
might lead to a heightened definition of delight.
O how this waning afternoon does smell
like prairie earth, like honeycomb,
like leaves just moments earlier
rained on. Like white wine,
another portion of which Iíll quietly deplete
before nightfall, before Orion strings his bow,
before this body in a certain
slant of moonlight
begins to glow, then glows.