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They (the same ones) are to be
got at by tilling a ground
fretted with frost in which
the speaker would place them.
They are in it in winter wheat
in inappropriate shoes scorned by farmers
and arrayed in magnetic single file
uphill.

Birdless wind alongside them
along implements and papers
from the forge
alighting.

They (being got at) are cresting,
puppetry, decampment,
one leg crooked
one leg brought down on the unpacking slope
dulled by weather and hacked
tree stumps and the picked-over
remains of the pile
and trod.

Tunnels in the hill
altering the hill without altering its
shape. Hill drops away.
Can you see the hill, you?
It is here in the foreground
a hunting hill.