Faint lies the willow’s shadow on the meadow;
into the pond plops, light-green arc, a frog;
above the reeds, blue sparkling flicks and rocks,
each time the light wind makes their pennants billow.
In grass where willows line the river-arm
a light-haired lad plays marble games intently;
an orchard rattle to scare birds off sends the
Sunday silence fleeing across the farm.
Whenever the dry rrr takes a brief pause,
the silence from far off seems to contract
and suddenly be strangely, densely packed:
on empty sand by bolted stable doors,
in garden patch, in orchard, low and high,
a questioning and wondering seem to lie.