Rising above the crowns of trees like a steel Sequoia, the drilling rig reaches
for the moon while its rusty roots are dowsing for water in chthonian depths.

On my morning walk through the valley's mists, Bill Wordsworth
turned to me and said: Good God! I'd rather be a pagan suckled
by an outworn creed, so I might be walking in this pleasant land.

By blending into the brush he avoided the immigration police, as a poet
must be free in whichever world he would be. This brought me to where
a shovel dug, and a plastic mesh was flung across the path. I could see
through, but not far enough.