“Dry Ground” by W.S. Merwin

Summer deepens and a root reaches for receding
     water with a sense of waking long afterward
long after the main event whatever it was
     has faded out like the sounds of a procession
like April like the age of dew like the beginning
     now the dry grass drying keeps making the sounds of rain
to hollow air while the wheat whitens in the cracked fields
     and they keep taking the cows farther up into the woods
to dwindling pools under the oaks and even there
     the brown leaves are closing their thin hands and falling
and out on the naked barrens where the light shakes
     in a fever without a surface and the parched shriek
of the cicadas climbs with the sun the bats
     cling to themselves in crevices out of the light
and under stone roofs those who live watching the grapes
     like foxes stare out over the plowed white stones
and see in all the hueless blaze of the day nothing
     but rows of withered arms holding up the green grapes