The trees went up the hill

    And over it.

    Then the dry grasses of the pasture were

    Only a kind of blonde light

    Settling everywhere

    And framing the randomly strewn

    Outcropping of gray stone

    That anchored them to soil.

    Who were they？

    One in the picture， & one not， & both

    Scotch-Irish drifters，

    With nothing in common but a perfect contempt

    for a past；

    Ancestors of stumps & fallen trees & . . . .

    One sits on a sorrel mare，

    Idly tossing small stones at the rump

    of a steer

    That goes on grazing at tough rosettes

    of pasture grass & switching its tail

    In what is not yet irritation.

    What I like， what I

    Have always liked， is the way he tosses each small

    Stone without thinking， without

    A thought for anything， not aiming at all，

    The easy， arcing forearm nonchalance

    Like someone fly casting，

    For this is what

    He wanted：

    To be among the stones， the grasses，

    Savoring a stony self

    That reminded him of no one else，

    And on land where that poacher， Law，

    Had not yet stolen through his fences，

    The horse beneath him tensing

    Its withers lightly to keep

    The summer flies away，

    And the woman in the flower-print dress hemmed

    With stains

    A half mile off

    Is the authoress of no more than smoke rising，

    Her sole diary & only publication，

    From a distant chimney.

    They have perhaps a year or two

    Left of this

    Before history begins to edit them into

    Something without smoke or flies， something

    Beyond all recognition.