They kept it all level. And low. Even
little stones they swept away. They went on
for miles, a bend at a hill, then a bend
back. Around them birch forest mostly
or openings for lakes, and a few hidden lakes.

They carved on the rocks—these are what stay,
hardly worn at all if sheltered, some
broken and all of them gray, that distant
gray that clouds have, or storms that moan
at the coast. They carved and went away.

Level and low. And the carved things. And one
more thing: when you look around and listen,
the last thing is there. You hear it wait.
Because they were early and quiet, and because
of that last bend, and because of the gray—

There is something left. We’ll find it some day.