Story
the fires that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond stiffens and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out its long blue shadows. The wind wags
its many tails. And in the evening the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
