The peg-legged beggar near the bridge
Observes the stream go by
The sun is hot; he sees a hawk
And hears a field mouse cry.
He dips his non-peg-leg inside
The ever-rushing stream
The sun collects itself into
A burning noon-light beam.
He doesn’t feel refreshed
To feel the stream on non-peg skin
He switches; dips inside the stream
His worn and wooden limb.
At last, a rush of calm and cool!
His peg-leg cannot feel
But wood is wise, and has a knack
For sensing out the real.
