Classic Poem

for Kathleen Norris

Drab a drab morning, and mute, a mockingbird out to know well enough what's what,

But now, November's end, hunched, shrunk and hungry-looking, in a perfectly plucked young sycamore

(A bleached tree that seems out of place here among high mighty pines)

At least one looks for all the world as though he were lost.

Our shadows, if we should take that particular path, would become the same as the sycamore's and his.