From my porch at dusk I looked up

and heard

a hawk cry in a sound she could only

have made in sorrow.

I saw Earl Dedham’s milk truck go by,

farm rounds done by 5,

the sheriff’s white cars coming up the road,

heading to their sub-station

for the evening roll call and announcements,

my neighbor Carl heading home from his job

in Glens Falls in his new Ford pick-up he

keeps clean and shiny.

Down at Moon’s place, the tractor starts

up for the last run at the corn field,

and I can hear it over the wind,

which brings me stories from my world.

This wind rises up at dusk,

I made the pansies squirm and twirl,

like pinwheels,

as it got darker the peepers,

and now, a few crickets started up,

taking over from the hawk,

who vanished over the hill.

In a world where a man no longer

can even imagine the life of his own daughter,

this is still the world of my time,

the trucks roaring down the road,

the tilled fields brown in the sun,

the evening breeze ruffling the fur

on my dog’s back.

What must a man do to feel at home in

the world?

On my porch, what songs will I hear?