He found it difficult to tell the story of grass and the aspen
that shivered
and the names inside him.
Such a boyhood
Holding perfectly still in the green unspoken.
If the grass was democratic it was owing to unspeakable loneliness.
He lay low and still.
The times were plain.
He knew the names—
A favorite was the White Throated Sparrow
Called the Peabody Bird
Whose little song could break your heart.
This was in the final days before television
When some of us played dead
And really heard the bird songs.
Planet of the Blind 