Wood light, meadow light,
the fencepost silver
in the afternoon’s long stare;
beast light, the satin flush
of horserump or the brown hand
in the saskatoons;
cloud light and willow light,
the dead light of the salt marsh
and the hammered brilliance
of the dugout under wind;
even the rain in its night singing,
the night rain in its forgetting,
is a kind of light.