The quiet of an open field,
Is no quiet quite at all,
But something more, something fuller,
It's the carried chatter of the birds,
The sliding of the wilding grass,
The transient wind which always seems to hang about such places -
I wonder why I ever filled it when I ought participate.

Speed shopping for the choice is quick,
The long bridge to disparate indecision,
Charred and marked in the bonfires licks,
I shall not stand an over-deliberation,
But dress myself in ease to pick.

A mild beauty in the nighttime reflections,
Soft edges from the glowing walls,
More detail than my mind dare render,
All framed in window reflections small.