Woods

Woods In the green woods no path has direction decay is a form of progress and despite all the circumspection 'Getting there" wouldn't be understood. It's true, ants industrialize, and squirrels very middle-class bank on the prodigal oaks. But the fashion is baroque--tulips like venetian glass, birds ignite on every branch, each elm has Restoration sleeves, and the bees and flowers are an old scandal. The effort, what there is, doesn't show. Flying must be fun, memories are short and where nothing is remembered, nothing is routine. Everyone has a talent, nests seldom fail, and what's spent is miraculously retained. What they report of us we have only indignant noises from which to judge--and then the quiet watching 'til we go.