THAT MUSIC

The creek’s silver in the sun of almost August,

And bright dry air, and last runnels of snowmelt,

Percolating through the roots of mountain grasses

Vinegar weed, golden smoke, or meadow rust,

Do they confer, do the lovers’ bodies

In the summer dusk, his breath, her sleeping face,

Confer—, does the slow breeze in the pines?

If you were the interpreter, if that were your task.