This sky is unmistakable. Not lurid, not low, not black. 
Illuminated and bruise-color, limitless, to the noon 
Full of its floods to come. Under it, field, wheels, and mountain, 
The valley scattered with friends, gathering in 
Live-colored harvest, filling their arms; not seeming to hope 
Not seeming to dread, doing. 
                                               I stand where I can see 
Holding a small pitcher, coming in toward 
The doers and the day. 
                                               These images are all 
Themselves emerging: they face their moment: love or go down, 
A blade of the strong hay stands like light before me. 
The sky is a torment on our eyes, the sky 
Will not wait for this golden, it will not wait for form. 
There is hardly a moment to stand before the storm. 
There is hardly time to lay hand to the great earth. 
Or time to tell again what power shines past storm.