The dark things of the wood br Are coming from their caves, br Flexing muscle. br br They browse the orchard, br Nibble the sea of grasses br Around our yellow rooms, br br Scarcely looking in br To see what we are doing br And if they still know us. br br We hear them, or think we do: br The muzzle lapping moonlight, br The tooth in the apple. br br Put another log on the fire; br Mozart, again, on the turntable, br Still there is a sorrow br br With us in the room. br We remember the cave. br In our dreams we go back br br Or they come to visit. br They also like music. br We eat leaves together. br br They are our brothers. br They are the family br We have run away from.