IDES OF SEPTEMBER

                        I began to be followed by a voice saying:
                        “It can’t last. It can’t last.
                        Harden yourself. Harden yourself.
                        Be ready. Be ready.”
                              – Wendell Berry (“Song in a Year of Catastrophe”)

Two laps around the sun, the voice, it dogs me—
recalling tougher times, tougher men and their women
who bore it all, the earth and flesh as one.

We are ready—weary, but ready once again for change:
the stirring of dry leaves clinging beneath thin clouds,
long shadows as the sun slips south, the raft of Widgeon

freshly arrived rising at first light, circling back
despite me. The silhouettes of first calves gathered
in shaded nurseries around oak trees, knowing only

the voice and scent of mother, dust and dirt—
blissfully naïve of rain, green leaves of grass
waiting in ambush somewhere ahead on this dry track.

We give in to it, the certainty, and sink into the earth
emulating centuries of oak trees. The barns are full
and ready as the bellies of cows heavy with calf.