Back in the homeland. A deep evening chill. Ambling down the dirt roads, up the lanes of the empty camps, and the sky unfolding colors, the last sun rays glinting on the crowns of the oaks; happy to be wearing hat and gloves, to return to a warm house, crackle of kindling, soup on the stove. Then early to bed, line-dried sheets, dreams of babies, and now the slow wakeup, listening to a speckle of rain on the metal roof, wondering if we got a frost last night, wondering if I will remember how to do my job, how to heave myself out of bed and into a car and onto the road and into a poem,