A second crop of hay lies cut br and turned. Five gleaming crows br search and peck between the rows. br They make a low, companionable squawk, br and like midwives and undertakers br possess a weird authority. br br br Crickets leap from the stubble, br parting before me like the Red Sea. br The garden sprawls and spoils. br br br Across the lake the campers have learned br to water ski. They have, or they haven’t. br Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone br suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!” br br br Cloud shadows rush over drying hay, br fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine. br The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod br brighten the margins of the woods. br br br Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts; br water, silver-still, and a vee of geese. br br br * br br br The cicada’s dry monotony breaks br over me. The days are bright br and free, bright and free. br br br Then why did I cry today br for an hour, with my whole br body, the way babies cry? br br br * br br br A white, indifferent morning sky, br and a crow, hectoring from its nest br high in the hemlock, a nest as big br as a laundry basket ... br In my childhood br I stood under a dripping oak, br while autumnal fog eddied around my feet, br waiting for the school bus br with a dread that took my breath away. br br br The damp dirt road gave off br this same complex organic scent. br br br I had the new books—words, numbers, br and operations with numbers I did not br comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled br by use, in a blue canvas satchel br with red leather straps. br br br Spruce, inadequate, and alien br I stood at the side of the road. br It was the only life I had.