“It's time to walk to the cider millThrough air like apple wine,And watch the moon rise over the hill,stinging and hard and fine.It's time to bury your seed pods deepAnd let them wait and be warm.It's time to sleep the heavy sleepThat does not wake for the storm.”

“When the last moonshiner buys his radio,And the last, lost, wild-rabbit of a girlIs civilized with a mail-order dress,Something will pass that was AmericanAnd all the movies will not bring it back.”

“Of all the Christbitten places in the two hemispheres, (Los Angeles) is the last curly kink in the pig's tail.”

“When Daniel Boone goes by at nightThe phantom deer ariseAnd all lost, wild AmericaIs burning in their eyes.”

“Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways.”

“Home is watching the moon rise over the open, sleeping land and having someone you can call to the window, so you can look together. Home is where you dance with others, and dancing is life.”

“Dreams on waking were like empty cocoons of moths or the split-open husks of milkweed pods, dead shells where life had briefly swirled in furious but fragile storm-systems.”