I seem to be the only moving thing:
even the sun seems constant.
The breeze enters my worksite steadily
not with the brackish loaded odours of autumn
but with springlike lightness.
While the cattle recline,
relishing warmth, shade and light airs
like outdoor opera fans in deckchairs,
I caulk, and paint,
filling cracks, finishing
By day’s end I want a statement,
not the incremental erosion of the mountainous task
that has burdened me all summer,
but a statement of achievement.
So I hang the door,
and knocking off,
To find the cattle handing the evening
a standing ovation
as the grassland catches fire
in low red sunlight,