There is a sound of going
in the tops of the mulberry trees,
The sound of a last breath.
In the cottonwoods also
And the willow-leafed poplars,
That a week ago were flame-pointed,
A sound as of bent blades clashing rustily.
There is a sound of going in the chamise
The sound of a besom sweeping, sweeping,
A sound of unconsidered things
Scurrying to brief corners of oblivion.
But with the spruce trees it is not so,
Nor with the balsam firs by the water borders.
A staying sound,
As of roots that strain but loose not
From the rock crevices.
I will go up to the evergreen pines,
To the blue spruces around Eagle Rock
And hearten myself with the sound of the star-built firs.