Not the new wind,
Not the old beech leaves
rattling at the edge of the plowed road.
Not the yellow posting
Against human legs
Nailed to the dozing oak.
Not even the revved engines
Of snowmobiles
Tearing up the air and the dusk.
No. But in a still moment,
Echoing through the watershed valleys
Netting the bristled, snowy hills,
The red-crested drummer,
Dreamer of eggs.
—Following a form found in Heaney's "Fieldwork."
