This morning where the thrushes sing
unseen and where the blackbirds hunt,
spring marches on relentless as
the movement on the eastern front.
The birds sang at evening
beneath the gently falling rain,
and nothing stirred that I could see,
no eyes peered silently,
Where the wild things were
The trimmer rips through the last old trees, the hunters shoot the last deer, the fields are full of grain to fatten industrial cattle, bombs light up the night sky.
On days of wind
On days of wind, the washing blows
and billows in the shirts and sheets
flailing empty cotton arms.
So many lines across the land
with washing blowing in the wind,
the white and pink and palest blues,