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Poem	Paw marks near one burrow show Graydigger at home, I bend low, from down there swivel my head, grasstop level--the world goes on forever, the mountains a bigger burrow, their snow like last winter. From a room inside the world even the strongest wind has a soft sound: a new house will hide in the grass; footsteps are only the summer people. The real estate agent is saying, "Utilities . . . easy payments, a view." I see my prints in the dirt. Out there in the wind we talk about credit, security-- there on the bank by Graydigger's home.
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