LITTLE UNITS IN THE SUN
Glinting like weevils on a cotton-spiked gin,
the landscape is dotted with something. Fireflies
at 7pm on a just-right evening couldn't be any
better than this. I want to learn and listen.
The farmer comes down from his new
tractor, proud and hale, dealing a bale.
So many are the things I love; so
many are the things forgotten.