The soil with all its little minerals
and earthworms and burrowing things
and bugs whose names I do not know,
and grasses of every kind and weeds
and all who feed on them, all those
who creep and fly.
The creek with its minnows and trout,
and the streams and lakes and rivers,
And here, these picturesque farms
with their lives and their wonderful stories,
and the woods, oh my darling, the woods.
It all seems now like a picture in a book
on a quickly turning page. Red barns, gold fields,
blue dioxin skies.