Farms lie on the top of Millington Mountain.
Fences draw their feet up out of the sod
And doze in the all-day sun. Houses are hidden,
And meadows have the summit to themselves.
Up from the road they rise all afternoon,
The stubble flowing swiftly to the top—
A thin brown line that holds—then flowing over
And over, a walker thinks. But there are days
When, left and right, the highway low between,
The stubble turns to plumage, and the horizons
Are tips of wings that bear the sky away.
The mountain has grown weary of its stone;
The mountain is not sleeping any more;
And we who walk to the village and do not know
What house we shall come back to, if we come.