212. AT SAMARKAND

AT SAMARKAND
Without even a moment, I can't believe it's
happening again. The radio behind me is
playing Ruggles and Ives - a discordant
harmony I love nonetheless - and I'm sitting
back just listening to what I dream.
To be imagined, in fact, is a whole
entire scene :
the backyard fence, the boldness of the
hawk - which just landed with a noisy
flutter on a tree-limb up high - and the
skeptical eye of every other ground creature
nearby. Squirrels scurry and run. The
rabbits find somewhere to hide. I'm
somehow waiting for the skunk now to exude
its wonderful odor. My intentions in fact
are good : a witness I will be for the
prosecution. 'Your honor, such a life is
a wonderful thing to explain. The varied
hand of Nature at work in every thing.
Were I some Roman God, or a Greek one
before that, I'd have a perfect sequence
for bringing all the good time back : a golden
age, some staggering proliferation of goodness
and bliss. Alas, in fact, all I'm left with is this.'