Givens of a walk round: five goslings and two geese

beneath architecture. A sapling spines out of rainwater

with a marsh bird in its beak. Beyond, commissary

concrete and the police band's buzz, enthusing

flyaway. We are mortal and these thoughts

propagate what they propitiate. Specialness,

springtime: we accept terrain. Rain dusts

newsprint to assign our skins, adopt our homes.

But Mrs. Ramsay said it would be fine tomorrow.

Is our tomorrow hers? Her nearly audible click?

What is to be done in the face of our mild occupation?

Paddling between their parents, the newly fleeced

are burred with dim yellow optimism. What's given

seems some water and the bell these buildings peal.