"I rose this morning early as usual, and went to my desk. But it's spring and the thrush is in the woods, somewhere in the twirled branches, and he is signing. And so now I am standing by the open door. And now I am stepping down onto the grass. I am touching a few leaves. I am noticing the way the yellow butterflies move together, in a twinkling cloud, over the field. And I am thinking: maybe just looking and listening is the real work. Maybe the world, without us, is the real poem."