Much that happens everywhere leaves no record:

the crayfish in the shallows beneath the bridge

briefly in July; the sudden gust of wind that shakes

the ancient palm beside the tennis courts;

the fresh paw print drying on the fence panel

where a fox had clambered up at dawn;

in the rough lane of earth and flints, the litter

of sweet chestnuts from the overhanging trees,

and violets flowering on the banks;

the horses uneasy in the stable

as September lightning fills the valley;

the narrow river rumbling with rain;

on the patio’s wrought-iron table

an empty glass trembling.