Sap runs out of the trees, as usual
the forests stand, wooden and green
before my window, and everywhere on the earth
where there is no field, no garden
no house like mine.

Sometimes an insect, on the underedge of a leaf,
a fawn-brown target with few
bull's-eyes from last year -
two ancient horses
pull wood out of the debris, with the darkness
come the hunters, you can see their yellow
tennis shoes shine.

Translated by Donna Stonecipher