In October I have the often unrealized sense that everything is meaningless and meaning is in that, like the dips and rolls of the land—they could be any way, but they couldn’t be any other way. I drive out of town ten minutes where people still think of harvests and see bundles of gray tobacco hanging from the gray rafters of a dry house how human organs hang in the upright body. Wind moves through them. There are browsing goats who do not know where they are and are unafraid because they can never be out of place. Wind moves through them. It makes me sleepy to breathe so well. Along the road there is a fence of trees, which corrals a fence. The trees loom like mothers. They have things caught in their hair. There are sounds that I am unaware of, and sometimes I am aware of them, which is how they are sounds. The mothers barely touch each other in the picnic-light, while squirrels of energy move between them. Children of the earth are drinking tallboys and worrying about money in glades of forsythia. Every thing is pushing against the other with equal force. And chicken hawks hunting are pulled up by gravity with their pointed faces shaped for only one purpose. This scene is interchangeable; that is how I know the things that comprise it are meaningless and perfect.