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Down steep, tight curves, jolting.
A strange rattle starts up
In the steering column.
Mudholes from the oozings
Of roadside springs. And there,
The shine of the river
Winding in the open
Valley. And no one down there.
Much of that day is gone.
Half careless as I was
Of it -- since it was mine,
I chose that, rather than
Become cautious with it;
So, much of it's well gone --
Into my bones, maybe;
Certainly out of reach.
Sycamores and alders,
Grass turning a bright brown;
In the vertical light
The loud water ablaze,
Skimmed by green-backed swallows --
Hawk, black in the distance,
Calling down at it all --
Now from these I recall: