She speaks of the listless stream,
a nation of sad voices lost
among the scum of time.
She says they are mistaken . . .
watching, in a predatory universe,
the digestion of all they are.

I agree.

Yet am I not food for others,
something greater, smaller, stronger,
weaker, for life and death,
for evil and good?

She sees in their prison of afternoon
clouds and distances, the feeding
always on another's death.
She says they watch the muddy surfaces
of their lives, never guessing.

I agree.

We stand, together yet apart,
watching summer's drift and flutter,
silent and secret in our dreams.