Then one could see it where it had been all along.
Then one puts a hand over a mouth.
One never gets over that the plant repeats itself growing out of itself
and there it is again on the top of a hill.
I’ve gotten so I avoid passing by but this week there are so many others
and one comes to understand pilgrimage as walking.
I was thinking of it only yesterday how we have lost the road,
the sounds on the pavement severing other sounds—
the turkeys wild in the un-cut fields,
from the line of swallows scattering their wings.
This part of a life must be producing a decided next part.