A little too abstract, a little to wise, It is time for us to kiss the earth again, It is time to let the leaves rain from the skies, Let the rich life run to the roots again. I will go down to the lovely Sur Rivers And dip my arms in them up to the shoulders. I will find my accounting where the alder leaf quivers In the ocean wind over the river boulders. I will touch things and things and no more thoughts, That breed like mouthless May-flies darkening the sky, The insect clouds that blind our passionate hawks So that they cannot strike, hardly can fly. Things are the hawk’s food and noble is the mountain, Oh noble Pico Blanco, steep sea-wave of marble.