When early July’s
Arrival quieted the spring’s black flies,
          We spent green afternoons
                 Stretched on the moss
Beside dark Eagle Pond, and heard across
Its distances the calling of the loons.

                 The days swam by,
Lazy with slow content and the hawk’s cry.
         We lost ambition’s rage,
                 Forgot it all,
Forgot Jane Kenyon, forgot Donald Hall,
And sleepily half glanced at a bright page.

                 Day after day
We crossed the flaking railroad tracks and lay
          In the slant August sun
                 To nap and read
Beneath an oak, by the pond’s pickerel weed.
Then acorns fell. These days were almost done.