A bench in open air, along a ridge,
Is bathed in sun. It overlooks a spot
Between some cresting hills, where runs a rill
That’s going to the sea from here, beyond. 

The river can’t be seen (the drop too low),
But blue and buff and yellow-green abound
Like Van Gogh’s garden—sown with lilac, too
And from this seat a picture can be gleaned.

A path runs through a hollow up the way.
The ground is dappled with a golden light
Which leaves let in; And in the mud, a horse
Print stays. Upon the rocks some mosses cling—

At dusk, marine, in shadows teal and gray.
At noon, the bugs are out, they nest where water
Can find a place to drip and lull. A hawk
From distance cries—it haunts a different stream.

Where, your features—on which trek do they go?
Between the hills, below the eagle cry?
Across the fetid foot path of the moss?

I don’t know mine, but everywhere I look

They seem to follow; showing by a glow 
Or tributary; indicating with 
A stumble or a climb—the echo of
Mortality and hardness of the slime.