He is querulous and constipated,
Whitman tells us, but he still writes
a song every day of his life.

There is plenty to write about
in Old Field where I live.
Last night the constable phoned
the animal warden: ‘There’s a rabbit,”
he said, “that’s acting strange.”

It was moving very slow.
Then she saw a pair of eyes
up the road. The fox.
It must have chased the rabbit
and tired it out.

As I said, lots of stories,
and some strange ones. But few occasions
for song, as far as I know.