On Hearing Stravinsky

It's all right if you
picnic gently around the edges
in your soft colors and your
predictability.

But beyond that, the land
asks discomforting questions.
When I hear the muwahh muwaaa
I don't think of hunters.

That life in there is pretty
deliberate. It tangles angrily.
It is accustomed to death,
takes it for granted like religion.

The trees prevent tactics
and permit surprises.
And the earth is still
a mass of worms.