After the rain, it is like morning again: a bird
(Withdrawn so long) speaks, cordially; another
Threads a tree with song.
The sky’s descending gray torn, our eyes
Walk out and through, out through the world.
Color lifts up its ranges.
But odors slow us; water touches
With many hands; rose and rotted wood
Engross us in air.
And as at dawn a near bough, dark, fences calmly
A storm of light. Snail and earthworm
Are long gone forth on their journeys.
Upon which the night falls.
But then what space of time was it which, entering,
We took to be our own?
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