The nesting sun is silent as still water
in after-rain peace; the clouds about her
take the same blaze on their wan terminations.
The chain of spire trees, darksome below,
are like the naked edge of the world.
Even the birds drop their chant to listen -
listen to the large witness of the world,
that its words are with evening reimbursed
in the after-rain peace - and then harrow
out their song again; same song, newly,
while more winnowed clouds gather like shot sheets
over the fire of the world that faced us.