In the long evening of April through the cool light br Bayle's two sheep dogs sail down the lane like magpies br for the flock a moment before he appears near the oaks br a stub of a man rolling as he approaches br smiling and smiling and his dogs are afraid of him br we stand among the radiant stones looking out over br green lucent wheat and earth combed red under bare walnut limbs br bees hanging late in cowslips and lingering bird cherry br stumps and brush that were the grove of hazel trees br where the land turns above the draped slopes and the valley br filled with its one sunbeam and we exchange a few questions br as though nothing were different but he has bulldozed the upland br pastures and the shepherds' huts into piles of rubble br and has his sheep fenced in everyone's meadows now br the smell of box and damp leaves drifts from the woods where a blackbird br is warning of nightfall Bayle has plans to demolish br the ancient walls of the lane and level it wide br so that trucks can go all the way down to where the lambs br with perhaps two weeks to live are waiting for him at the wire br he hurries toward them while the sun sinks and the hour br turns chill as iron and in the oaks the first nightingales br of the year kindle their unapproachable voicesbr br William Stanley Merwinbr br