A Georgic

The sun is setting past the airy hills.
The grass glows like an ancient manuscript
laid with gold leaf. Field mice flit among
the tall green stalks, picking the ground for seeds.
My friend George sits tuning a battered banjo,
his checkered shirt spread out beneath him, hair
like wheat blown back and forth by a blue wind.
The strings chime thoughtfully under his touch.
A thrifted radio recounts the weather
for those who are indoors this afternoon.
Time’s rush and noise are far from here. I know
that no one lives aloof from the wide world,
that all is writ in water, and that autumn’s
baroque decay must follow summer’s fruit.
But right now there’s music, and a friend to sing with.

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