Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow;
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The crowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon,,
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Baze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on
A chiken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
- James Wright.