The Call Away
A cold wind flows over the cornfields; Fleets of blackbirds ride that ocean. I want to be out of here, go out, Outdoors, anywhere in wind.
My back against a shed wall, I settle Down where no one can find me. I stare out at the box-elder leaves Moving frond-like in that mysterious water.
What is it that I want? Not money, Not a large desk, not a house with ten rooms. This is what I want to do: to sit here, To take no part, to be called away by wind.
I want to go the new way, build a shack With one door, sit against the door frame. After twenty years, you will see on my face The same expression you see in the grass.