Ernest

Ernest sits for years on the bank
above the meadow, watching his
cow graze. There is a seat pressed in
the leaves that seems the bed of some
animal scooped out of the hill
and shaded by the margin oaks
and white pine grove. The nest is both
leaf-lined and needle-cushioned, new
with every wind. He grazes his
cow in the spring-glade and watches
her hour by hour and afternoon
by afternoon, not moving, still as
when he lay two days in Flanders
mud and bodies, playing his corpse
and watching the sky change sides. Ground
squirrels work around and rabbits
and woodpeckers gather and leave,
while hepaticas shine and leaf
out into summer as he looks
and the Jersey changes spots and
trees color and airplanes get higher
above and quieter until
they are almost invisible
except for cobwebs floating down.