Sometimes in late summer I won’t
touch anything, not the flowers, not the blackberries brimming in
the thickets; I won’t drink from the pond; I won’t
name the birds or the trees; I won’t whisper my own name.
One morning the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn’t see me—and I thought: so this is the
world. I’m not in it. It is beautiful.