Daughter, booted, struck out of stride by
the dogs, people on bicycles,
the unattached sky.

The horses made honest sounds
and when we were gone they turned
and lied to each other.

You unfastened the puddles,
jumping from one splash to the next.
Your year-and-a-little-long arms spread
and the trees printed out leaves.

Birds were concerning the lake, or
among chiselled beech-leaves waited,
compact as buds. A moorhen stitched
with needles of light. Cattle hinged
loosely. A spider was at the end

of its tether when you stopped,
at a loss to move.
You could hardly mistake
a ditch on which the moon

shone near a half-decomposed fox
where frogs copulated slowly
and looking you reached and pointed
past the growing and rotting trees

and said get me. Get me.