Grass yellow hill,
            small mountain range blue sky
bright reservoir below road tiny cars
The wing tree green wind sigh
                     rises, falls—
        Buddha, Christ, fissiparous
                                  Tendencies—
White sun rays     pierce my eyeglasses—
       gray bark animal arms,
                             skin peeling,
       sprig fingers pointing, twigs trembling
             green plate-thins bobbing,
                       knotted branch-sprouts—
No one will have to announce New Age
No special name, no Unique way,
        no crier by Method or
                       Herald of Snaky Unknown,
No Messiah necessary but the Country ourselves
                                     fifty years old—
Allah this tree, Eternity this Space Age!
Teenagers walking on Times Sq.   Look up
       at blue planets thru neon metal
                                    buildingtops,
Old men lie on grass afternoons
       old Walnut stands on green mountain hide,
                      ants crawl the page, invisible
                           insects sing, birds
                                               flap down,
Man will relax on a hill remembering tree friends.