The Poem by Donald Hall

It discovers by night 
what the day hid from it.
Sometimes it turns itself
into an animal.
In summer it takes long walks 
by itself where meadows
fold back from ditches.
Once it stood still 
in the quiet row of machines.
Who knows 
what it is thinking?

~ from White Apples and the Taste of Stone 
(Houghton Mifflin Company, 2007)