WILLIAM STAFFORD
Paw marks near one burrow show Graydigger
at home, I bend low, from down there swivel
my head, grasstop level—the world
goes on forever, the mountains a bigger
burrow, their snow like last winter. From a room
inside the world even the strongest wind
has a soft sound: a new house will hide
in the grass; footsteps are only the summer people.
The real estate agent is saying, “Utilities . . .
easy payments, a view.” I see
my prints in the dirt. Out there
in the wind we talk about credit, security—
there on the bank by Graydigger’s home.