The white gaulin's uninterrupted flight
from past the woods, then down towards the stream,
not easy caught. A solitary beam
of afternoon sun carries my delight
that world and season are, at last, turned right,
while silver fountain bears an honest gleam
as heated breezes purify the stream.
No one is worried by the coming night.
So, in the music, this is where we rest
while in the harder places war is fought
over the meanings of important things.
I will not fuss about a noisome pest
nor give its bird-brained maundering a thought.
Instead, I'll sit a while, then go to eat.
The morrow is for worry. Now life's sweet.