When young women smile all of that nature called beauty for me; when something whelms, like my blood after five hours sleep last night; when obstructions make an effort to fold out of my way, and I find myself performing deviations to my convenience without a conscious effort; What is it through the trees my vision spans to the distant creekbed; before the gray that makes a near horizon. The trees are brown and bare like dry ferns; the water runs cold and through the fog there’s a roof of a barn, only about a half mile away. What is it there and faded like the fog asked it there to be that certain colored rust of red, the color of bricks or redwood.
February 1972