Relax at noon beside a scorching garden wall
and listen for the sounds in thorn and scrub:
the rustling of the snakes, the blackbirds’ anxious call.

Here, where the earth is cracked, or on the vetch,
red ants are on the march. Their lines break up,
reform, scale tiny hillocks as you watch.

Observe the distant throb of surf on beach
between the palm fronds, while, across a bowl of air,
bald mountains echo to cicadas’ trembling screech.

Step out into the blinding sun and, as you pass,
reflect, in wonder and regret, that all of life,
with all its woes, amounts to this: a walk
beside a wall whose top is set with broken glass.