Sometimes in late summer I wont touch anything ,not
the flowers , not the blackberries 
brimming in the thickets ; I won't drink 
from the pond , I won't name the birds or trees 
I won't whisper my own name
 
                  One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident 
and didn't see me - and I thought


so this is the world.
I'm not in it.
It is beautiful.

October by Mary Oliver