FAS

Momentous and trivial, I walk along the lake cliff and look north where the lake curls to a wisp through the hills   and say as if to the lake, I'm here, too, and to the winter storm centered gnarl-black over the west bank,   I nearly call out, it's me, I'm here: the wind-fined snow nicks my face, mists my lashes   and the sun, not dwindling me, goes on down behind the storm and the reed withes' wind doesn't whistle, brother! brother! and no person comes.
A.R.Ammons I Could Not Be Here At All

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