By Hilda Conkling
The Big Dipper spilled stars down over the roofs,
I felt the way the wind whirled stars
Over the town roofs. . . .
I felt the town asleep:
I felt people there in the great crisp dark.
When morning came in a waver of light
There was a breath of change … all the dreams going away from the dreamers
As dreams do go away in the morning.
A ring of hills . . . one river . . . some streets
Make a design.
Stars make a design
And it is a Big Dipper
Or the Pleiades like a bunch of grapes. . . .
It is harder to say what the roofs mean:
I don’t know . . .
Maybe I’m not yet far enough