A SONG OF SUMMER 83 



heart-leaved pickerel-weed, with its 

 purple spikes, outlines the shallow 

 water, and the lily pads, whose flowers 

 are closed or closing, rock with the 

 gentle motion. 



A kingfisher perching in a sycamore, 

 above the mill house, dives suddenly; 

 his reflection is so distinct that he 

 seems to wrestle with himself under 

 the water. One by one the birds 

 begin to warble as the sun slants 

 behind the cedars that top the hill, 

 and we sit in the enclosing shadows. 

 The colours of the submerged clouds 

 circle and eddy with all the shifting 

 hues of a bubble, and blend in an end- 

 less prism. The dogs, unnoticed, have 

 slipped away and gone home. The 

 shadows lengthen and then cease, pass- 

 ing to dark reflections; a mistlike 

 breath comes from the water. A night- 

 hawk, with white-spotted wings, skirls 



