FIRST I would like to write for you a poem to be shouted in the teeth of a strong wind. Next I would like to write one for you to sit on a hill and read down the river valley on a late summer afternoon, reading it in less than a whisper to Jack on his soft wire legs learning to stand up and preach, Jack-in-the-pulpit. As many poems as I have written to the moon and the streaming of the moon spinners of light, so many of the summer moon and the winter moon I would like to shoot along to your ears for nothing, for a laugh, a song, for nothing at all, for one look from you, for your face turned away and your voice in one clutch half way between a tree wind moan and a night-bird sob. Believe nothing of it all, pay me nothing, open your window for the other singers and keep it shut for me. The road I am on is a long road and I can go hungry again like I have gone hungry before. What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing? Leave me with the hoot owl. I have slept in a blanket listening. He learned it, he must have learned it From two moons, the summer moon, And the winter moon And the streaming of the moon spinners of light.