Evening spreads its coolness on the fields,
scents of the land pooled and lingering
in the still air as the day unfurls
in ordinary details of the plain country—
the roadside height of chicory blue-blooming,
the towering sky,
the deepening amber of whiskered grain,
the rabbit-tufted distances
from barn to barn,
and the fertile smell of corn in tassel,
spires against the high and fading light
as keen as swallows —
and me, picking blackberries,
fingers pierced and stained,
arms edged with sunset,
momentarily at peace
in my sullen, common longing.
