The land lies close to itself and hides its subtle visions. It hugs its trees, its men to its bosom. It has no mountains raising voice, no seaside booming pride. It dreams to itself, wishes to itself, whispers to itself. The wind, the clouds, the sky ride low to catch its words. It is the most modest of poets. The stars would drop down too, if they could, drop down and chase this land's words in a firefly tag among the tall, wild grasses. The night sky and the land lie on their spreading backs, face to face staring into each others thousands of eyes, likely lovers that need not touch. We wait for a slip of the quiet land's tongue, a quick revealment, a gift to the patient. We wait and hang up our sheets, walk the long chopped rows of corn, watch the geese fly south without us. We wait and are sometimes rewarded with a strain of that miraculous sound of a land content with itself.