2.
I have thought of you stepping out of your doorway at dawn, 
            your son in your tracks.
You go in under the overarching green branches of the forest
whose ways, strange to me, are well known to you as the sound 
            of your own voice
or the silence that lies around you now that you have ceased to 
            speak,
and soon the voice of the stream rises ahead of you, and you 
            take the path beside it.
I have thought of the sun breaking pale through the mists over 
            you
as you come to the pool where you will fish, and of the mist 
            drifting
over the water, and of the cast fly resting light on the face of the 
            pool.

3.
And I am here in Kentucky in the place I have made myself
in the world. I sit on my porch above the river that flows muddy
and slow along the feet of the trees. I hear the voices of the wren
and the yellow-throated warbler whose songs pass near the 
            windows
and over the roof. In my house my daughter learns the 
            womanhood
of her mother. My son is at play, pretending to be
the man he believes I am. I am the outbreathing of this ground.
My words are its words as the wren's song is its song.

4.
Who has invented our enmity? Who has prescribed us
hatred of each other? Who has armed us against each other
with the death of the world? Who has appointed me such anger
that I should desire the burning of your house or the 
            destruction of your children?
Who has appointed such anger to you? Who has set loose the 
            thought
that we should oppose each other with the ruin of forests and 
            rivers, and the silence of birds?
Who has said to us that the voices of my land shall be strange
to you, and the voices of your land strange to me? .

Who has imagined that I would destroy myself in order to 
            destroy you,
or that I could improve myself by destroying you? Who has 
            imagined
that your death could be negligible to me now that I have seen 
            these pictures of your face?
Who has imagined that I would not speak familiarly with you,
or laugh with you, or visit in your house and go to work with 
            you in the forest?
And now one of the ideas of my place will be that you would 
            gladly talk and visit and work with me.

5.
I sit in the shade of the trees of the land I was born in.
As they are native I am native, and I hold to this place as 
            carefully as they hold to it.
I do not see the national flag flying from the staff of the 
            sycamore,
or any decree of the government written on the leaves of the 
            walnut,
nor has the elm bowed before monuments or sworn the oath of 
            allegiance.
They have not declared to whom they stand in welcome.

6.
In the thought of you I imagine myself free of the weapons and 
            the official hates that I have borne on my back like a 
            hump,
and in the thought of myself I imagine you free of weapons and 
            official hates,
so that if we should meet we would not go by each other 
            looking at the ground like slaves sullen under their 
            burdens,
but would stand clear in the gaze of each other.

7.
There is no government so worthy as your son who fishes with 
            you in silence beside the forest pool.
There is no national glory so comely as your daughter whose 
            hands have learned a music and go their own way on the 
            keys.
There is no national glory so comely as my daughter who 
            dances and sings and is the brightness of my house.
There is no government so worthy as my son who laughs, as he 
            comes up the path from the river in the evening, for joy.