by Isabella GardnerThe salmon west leapt soft, spawned wild to sunset, and the poaching lovers stood heron-still in the foam of the orchard, baited to catch some sound of home, while no dog barked and no door slammed and no child shouted. But poplar leaves clashed like cymbals in the thin wind that blew and at last the moon boomed out of the apple-tree and the two lovers drove into the amorous dusk and swam like swans through the clamorous air.
