And Have Done with All the Rest

If you drove an hour by car
North of the town of St. George,

And climbed a few cliffs and crests,
You could find, side of a trail,

A creek, rare in a dry land,
One of the few year-round streams,

And sit by it a few hours,
While the winds wound through the pines,

And the brook rushed its soft sounds
We don’t have a good name for—

Winds and streams are so like voice
But don’t spoil it with a word.

You would not have fled the world
Of voice that is not the world,

You could not get out of town
For long, you would not be fooled

To think you’d fled to back then,
When woods were threats, towns warm dreams.

You would know. You would know you
Were just a flick in this air,

Not wild and not at home there,
But you’d be so glad to see

The trout in the leaf-choked stream,
Light-flicked dark moss and quick fins.