Paw marks near one burrow show Graydiggerat home,
I bend low, from down there swivelmy head, grasstop level—the worldgoes on forever, the mountains a biggerburrow, their snow like last winter.
From a roominside the world even the strongest windhas a soft sound: a new house will hidein the grass; footsteps are only the summer people.
The real estate agent is saying, "Utilities . . .easy payments, a view." I seemy prints in the dirt.
Out therein the wind we talk about credit, security—there on the bank by Graydigger's home.
