For Lysa, That She May Rise Early

Each morning between five and six
When twenty serious cows file out,
And the waking cries of sheep
Are the sweetest of the various sounds
That turn night into day,
The world's weather is most inhuman,
Though most secure.
One's apprehension disappears—
As if fog to some high ship ascends,
Mysterious as Prague,
As if you could become
One with the field itself,
And the motion of the animals.

Copyright © 2002 Robert McDowell All rights reserved
from On Foot, in Flames
The University of Pittsburgh Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission