for Don McKay

Late August at my window: the restlessness
in the dying grass, no longer drawn by light
but only air, the light itself – unflexed,
the fluid stretch of summer done –
moving inside itself, unseeing.
                                                       All day
the crickets chanting, bright glitter on the surface
of the ebb. And ravens
talking to themselves, the flocks
of chickadees. What is
human happiness? Last night, the broad leaves
of the grass at dusk fell still, the stillness
falling though them, breathing out
its heft of dew. I stood a long time at the window
listening: crickets in the darkness,
chanting, chanting.