In a country crying for gods the stones give tongue,
While the slashed logs lie still
In the fat shade, thick as moss,
The silver sides sliding with snails,
The sly birds close:
Come to me, towhee,
Close-hopper, pecker of seeds,
A face floats out of the sharp ferns,
All this shuttling in the sun,
Motion profound as song.
Come, come, you summer sounds, a leaf away,
Who billow up my sleeve like a small breeze,
How am I here?
That question cries again--
What is the least we know?
I call the slug my kin,
And move with those born slow.
--from 'I Sing Other Wonders'; Theodore Roethke