It’s quiet like that. Bucolic.
Looks like nothing’s going wrong anywhere at all.
Bare trees rocking back and forth. Three crows
chasing an owl across the field into the woods.
Susan Edward Richmond – Hormage, Orby Head
When I can go no farther, and the maps are all
blue, I count the birds at the end of the world:
swooped down from their russet watch-towers, long,
low lines of silhouette stoop to the waves,
Out of your whole life give but a moment!
All of your life that has gone before,
All to come after it,—so you ignore,
So you make perfect the present, —condense,