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THE SUMMONS For something out of sight, I cup a grass-blade in my hands, Tasting the root, and blow. I speak to the wind, and it lives. No hunter has taught me this call; It comes out of childhood and playgrounds. I hang my longbow on a branch. The wind at my feet extends Quickly out, across the lake, Containing the sound I have made. The water below me becomes Bright ploughland in its body. I breathe on my thumbs, and am blowing A horn that encircles the forest. Across the lake, a tree Now thrums in tremendous cadence. Beneath it, some being stumbles, And answers me slowly and greatly With a tongue as rasping as sawgrass. I lower my hands, and I listen To the beast that shall die of its love. I sound my green trumpet again, And the whole wood sings in my palms. The vast trees are tuned to my bowstring And the deep-rooted voice I have summoned. I have carried it here from a playground Where I rolled in the grass with my brothers. Nothing moves, but something intends to. The water that puffed like a wing Is one flattened blaze through the branches. Something falls from the bank, and isswimming. My voice turns around me like foliage, 64 And I pluck my longbow off the limb Where it shines with a musical light, And crouch within death, awaiting The beast in the water, in love With the palest and gentlest of children, Whom the years have turned deadly with knowledge: Who summonshim forth, and now Pulls wide the great, thoughtful arrow. Drowning With Others 65 ...

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