The cat isn't cluttered by the new birdsong,
Doesn't dig for the sake of the hole,
Is content where we gnaw with longing,
Though it twitches at gold we can't know.
All our thinking has built a haze
Between what is and what might be;
We call it false, the imagination,
What is yawningly received
As the extension of its being:
The wasp, the crow, the gnome.
