I wasn't surprised when I passed him this morning, sitting on a bench, bent over a pad, a pen
in hand. Though he "employ(ed) his legs as an instrument of philosophy," philosophers also
"know where the benches are." I sat down too.

I brushed thin mist off my shoulders, a net of invisible threads, which binds together at once man-
kind, rain, vegetation, fertility, health, animals, death, regeneration, after-life, stood, and bowed to
"a host of golden daffodils," then circled
back to
where I'd been
before.