The trees went up the hill br And over it. br Then the dry grasses of the pasture were br Only a kind of blonde light br Settling everywhere br And framing the randomly strewn br Outcropping of gray stone br br That anchored them to soil. br br Who were they? br One in the picture, & one not, & both br Scotch-Irish drifters, br With nothing in common but a perfect contempt br for a past; br Ancestors of stumps & fallen trees & . . . . br One sits on a sorrel mare, br Idly tossing small stones at the rump br of a steer br That goes on grazing at tough rosettes br of pasture grass & switching its tail br In what is not yet irritation. br br What I like, what I br br Have always liked, is the way he tosses each small br Stone without thinking, without br A thought for anything, not aiming at all, br The easy, arcing forearm nonchalance br Like someone fly casting, br For this is what br He wanted: br To be among the stones, the grasses, br Savoring a stony self br That reminded him of no one else, br And on land where that poacher, Law, br Had not yet stolen through his fences, br The horse beneath him tensing br Its withers lightly to keep br br The summer flies away, br br And the woman in the flower-print dress hemmed br With stains br A half mile off br Is the authoress of no more than smoke rising, br Her sole diary & only publication, br From a distant chimney. br They have perhaps a year or two br Left of this br Before history begins to edit them into br Something without smoke or flies, something br Beyond all recognition.