The land is thinly-settled.
Despite huge fields and machines
the towns lie sleepy
in boxwood gardens—cats
seldom meet a thrown stone. 

In August stars fall.
In September you sound the hunt.
Still, the gray goose flies, the stork walks
through unpoisoned meadows. Like mountains
clouds soar over the woods.

If you don’t take a paper here
the world is fine.
In kettles of plum butter
your face reflects well 
and the fields gleam fire-red.