Much that happens everywhere leaves no record:
the crayfish in the shallows beneath the bridge
briefly in July; the sudden gust of wind that shakes
the ancient palm beside the tennis courts;
the fresh paw print drying on the fence panel
where a fox had clambered up at dawn;
in the rough lane of earth and flints, the litter
of sweet chestnuts from the overhanging trees,
and violets flowering on the banks;
the horses uneasy in the stable
as September lightning fills the valley;
the narrow river rumbling with rain;
on the patio’s wrought-iron table
an empty glass trembling.
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By David Selzer
